


hold me closer

by Takykardi



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bang Chan is a Sweetheart, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Fluff, Insecurity, Lee Felix (Stray Kids)-centric, Lots of Touching, M/M, Many Many Feelings, Smut, Social Anxiety, Soft hour, Strangers to Lovers, implied trauma, lil bit of smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takykardi/pseuds/Takykardi
Summary: Felix is shiny on the outside and flayed on the inside.Chris peeks under the surface, and wants him, still.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Felix
Comments: 141
Kudos: 441





	1. merigold

**Author's Note:**

> Hi
> 
> This is an angsty very-very-soft tightly packaged semi-slow and syrupy sweet tale featuring (Chan)Chris and Felix
> 
> Check tags first. 
> 
> Ty for reading ♡

“Bang Christopher Chan.”

That’s his name, but Felix only sees his lips mouthing something inaudible. He must look confounded, because he gets it a second time. But it’s still only snippets of sound, overruled by the blaring music. After a long while of unsuccessfully trying to communicate with each other, they stumble out on the sidewalk.

He watches the guy repeat it a third time, tripping adorably over the words, but it's clear now. Clear and accented.

So he's Australian. Felix’s ears are ringing, and to be perfectly honest, he's s about ready to call it a night. But this guy’s smile is wide and sunny and he's cute. His neon yellow t-shirt glows in the dark and there's nothing but honest interest in his eyes and he's _cute_.

And he has shoulders the width of the entire country.

“You’re Australian too?” Felix hiccups, and slaps a hand over his mouth. One of his suspenders has slid off his shoulder. Chris reaches to fix it, and Felix steals another blurry look at him. Wonders if this is safe.

“Yeah. Wow. I never imagined to meet a fellow Aussie here. You look really nice tonight. Could I maybe buy you a drink?”

Felix accepts, because he’s already tipsy and why the hell not. But it doesn’t stop at one drink, or two or even three. There’s many of them and this guy called Chris buys them all. Felix spills all of his lame Aussie jokes as compensation, and Chris laughs until his face turns an unflattering but heartwarming shade of red. Whether it's real or fake and just because he wants to lure him into bed later, Felix doesn't know. Maybe doesn't care either.

But it makes him feel all tingly and appreciated regardless.

And then there’s dancing. Many, many hours of Felix’s ass grinding against Chris’s leather-clad crotch, and their lips crashing on the dancefloor. There's a cloud of sweat and beer-breath and pounding beats surrounding them, but it feels...real. Real and electrifying and Felix is alive with Chris's heart beating close to his.

He tastes like balmy summer nights and mojitos and youth. All the things Felix dreams of, really. Somewhere amidst the foggy haze he knows where this might end up, but he doesn’t mind for now. 

Chris's hand lingers on his thigh in the cab home, fingers playing with the threads of his ripped jeans. He doesn’t mind that either.

And when he kisses Felix again the time shows 1:35 AM and the strobe lights are nowhere to be seen. The sudden lack of the pounding bass makes Felix a little tense, makes him wonder how red and bleary his eyes are after all that drinking.

The light in Chris's living room is a little too bright for his liking. It shows everything.

Then again, he also sees things clearer now. Chris isn’t just a pair of blinking glow sticks approaching him, or a collection of dimmed features that Felix can make out as probably-handsome but no more than that.

He’s gradually sobering up, because it’s been, what...at least two hours since the last shot? Whether or not that’s a good thing he’s not sure. Being drunk makes things easier. But nonetheless, Chris's cheeks are nearly touching his, and when he discreetly opens an eye, he's met with a row of dark lashes coated with glitter. 

Pretty.

His hair is a shocking peroxide-blonde, roots only showing a hint of his natural dark shade. And there’s glitter at the ends too, glitter in the colors of the whole rainbow. He dares to move a hand up and rake through it, and a cascade of it rains down over both of them. Chris pauses, swollen lips stretching into a smile.

“I was supposed to look like a steampunk fairy tonight. Think I pulled it off?”

"Absolutely."

Oh, he did. The black streaks (war paint, he says) on his cheeks are covered by a glistening sheen of sweat. Felix is aware his own face is flushed red and clammy too. It’s okay, they both look the same, feel the same, mostly.

Chris knows what he’s doing with his mouth. Knows exactly when to part Felix’s lips and force his tongue in and when to pull back. His nose rubs against Felix’s every time the kiss intensifies. Like in an eskimo-kiss. And Chris mumbles things to him while his hands research his body. 

Sweet things. 

He calls him pretty and funny and claims he’s so happy they met and asks, breath hot against the nape of his neck, if Felix wants to move to the bedroom.

_And it’s nice, right?_

It is. It’s nice, it’s safe.

And that’s why it’s a yes to that one because Felix doesn’t have it in him to decline.

Chris' bed is unmade, cream sheets crumpled and indented. Felix is lowered down into them, gently. And he appreciates it, the tenderness. It’s not always been like that, because he’s ended up with young men with equally broad shoulders and equally husky voices a few times before. 

But they’ve not always had much to give him. Not much more than drunken, eager hands ripping his pants down with haste, or pushing him against walls much too roughly.

Then he endured because it was still nice to be desired. 

There’s a longing in Chris's half-lidded eyes as he leans down and kisses him. It’s languid and considerate. He leads but lets Felix follow, he doesn’t push him. Doesn’t dig fingers into his neck to leave reds marks and doesn’t flip him around or intrude without permission. And Felix drinks up compliment after compliment spoken in hushed, Australian-tinged English, like he's absolutely starved of them.

Which he is, but it's still not true. 

“You’re beautiful and funny. You really are.”

"No I'm not. You don't even know me." 

Chris's gaze is heavy and adoring on him, and he just doesn't understand. That this is all just surface level and a blatant act.

"Not yet. But you are. You're like the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen."

Felix meets his eyes, and shoves the onslaught of protests back down. His clothes end up in a pile on the floor and Chris ends up on top of him, curling his body over his so their tummies touch and roll against each other. And it’s still safe. Felix’s ribcage falls and rises evenly as ripples of warmth worm their way through him, because he’s being held and touched and caressed.

He loves being kissed. He shudders when Chris runs his tongue down his heaving chest. He automatically parts his legs when a knee gently pokes at his thigh. 

Even though he doesn’t feel anything but he wants to feel something and it’s been so long. 

Well. He does feel. But not the right things. He feels the intimacy, the being so _close,_ and he’s content because he’s wanted by someone – it’s what he constantly yearns for. But no one settles for just that. No one settles for just a soft make out session after all this flirting and build up of tongues and aching bodies pressed up against each other. And Felix led him on, he knows that.

He knows he’s rude and a relentless flirt and a _tease_ because people have told him. 

No one treats a guy like Felix to drink after drink and brings them home to their apartment just to stop at second base. 

And Chris is real. He’s not just some anonymous guy carved out of marble, existing only in some distant fantasy, no. He’s real and his skin is supple and he's right here and shivering with need. Soon his hand is on Felix’s crotch, palming impatiently at his dick. And Felix is still pliant underneath him, cooperative and emitting small kittenish moans into his mouth as he kisses him and strokes him and kisses him some more. 

He should swell under Chris's hand and vibrate with desire but he doesn’t. 

He gets almost-hard. The blood vessels respond somewhat to being stroked and activated, but he doesn’t. Chris himself has been hard for a good while. Felix can feel him digging into his thigh as he remains half-laying on top of him. But he stops what he’s doing, because suddenly there’s tension and flickering avoidance and it’s not like he doesn’t _notice_.

If it was someone else they might be knuckle-deep in Felix already but Chris notices. And suddenly Felix thinks that’s actually scarier. 

He meets the puzzled eyes. They're slightly glazed over. He sees the bushy, furrowed brows. And he wishes it wasn’t like this but it is. 

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you into it?”

Raw emotion claws at Felix. _Don’t cry now, stupid._ Chris is leaning on one elbow, flaxen hair side-swept and ruffled like he just got out of bed. Felix could stare at him for hours, watch him do the most mundane things. Read the news, assemble a shelf, cook ramen. But that's not the objective of this encounter.

Maybe this could even develop into something. Felix wants it to. Oh how he wants it to.

“I am. Just, uhm...we can go on.”

“But you’re not…” Chris glances down again. At Felix’s lower body that still remains in the same state of passive. “Am I doing something wrong? I can give you a blowjob, if you want…”

He says it cheekily, and moves down again. On the way there he stops to press open-mouthed kisses to Felix’s tummy and all the way to his inner thighs and _fuck_ that feels good. And Felix wishes he could be into the rest of it too, that he could feel something but he doesn’t or at least not that.

“Please...don’t, I don’t...need it,” he interrupts, shakily. Chris's head shoots up. He straightens out, blinks at the boy, all slender legs and high cheekbones splayed out in his bed. 

"What do you mean you don't need it...don't you want me to...touch your...?"

Felix nods, and then he shakes his head and nods again and swallows down a ball of crumpled paper.

It’s difficult to decipher him. He’s laying there, letting out shallow breaths, freshly kissed lips an insane shade of pink. But Chris is nearly sober now and on high alert and he’s starting to realize what's going on 

“Felix.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want to do? We can just kiss or cuddle or do anything. No pressure. We can watch Netflix, or do you want to leave? Please...tell me.”

Felix’s eyes get misty and soon he only sees blotches of color next to him as Chris settles down. He cries openly and it’s ugly and messy and shouldn’t happen. But Chris holds him through it, assuring him it’s okay. That whatever is going on is okay. Felix feels small in the strong arms, and the emotion turns into a craving. 

To just be near him.

"Felix...why are you crying? What's wrong?"

Chris sounds panicked, but Felix just nods and shakes until he's let it all out and he's emptied again.

"You're worrying me, you know...can you please talk to me?"

He runs a hand down Felix's arm once he's finally calmed down. Felix trembles, and inhales. Chris starts rambling again, suggesting this and that and the other and he's so sweet and it's painful, really.

"Do you want to shower? Sleep? Have something to eat?"

“I want you to fuck me.”

There’s a pause, and Felix knows how contrary he’s acting. He can see it all mirrored in Chris's face, every pressing question written all over him. And it’s understandable. This should be fun and smooth and Felix should be quivering with satisfaction from every light touch and yet it's never like that. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You don't even seem to be game, you're...are you sure you want that? Because you just had a crying outburst and –"

"I'm sorry about that." Felix bites his lip. Wants to explain, but can't. "It's...don't worry about it. I am. I want it, I do."

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Chris hastily assures. "Please. But you're not just saying that cause you think it's what I need, right? I just..."

He scratches his head for about a minute. Face pensive and Felix really hates the fact he must be so confused.

"...I don't want to hurt you."

He sounds so sincere that Felix loses it again. He sobs it into his chest, _please, please, please,_ and begs for it. Because now he just needs it, whatever Chris wants to give him. 

And he agrees. Felix can see he’s torn apart by confliction but he agrees after many many repeated pleas. He runs a thumb over the constellation of freckles scattered all over Felix’s nose and cheeks, tells him how pretty they are. And then he rises, gets the lube and condoms from the nightstand drawer, awkwardly flipping them over in his hands.

“Do you want to prep yourself or should I…?”

“Can you?” Felix’s voice is weak and hopeful. He spreads his thighs in invitation, and Chris crawls between them after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Okay. Okay, sure, baby.” 

"Can you kiss me first," Felix whines, feeling a slight heat rise to his ears because of how needy he sounds.

But Chris just placates him with another bright smile that helps dissolve the knot in his gut, and leans down again.

"Of course I can kiss you. I want to kiss you."

He hums into Felix’s mouth, winds fingers into his hair and kisses him until his muscles have slackened and he's pulpy and gooey under his lips. 

When he is, Chris shoves a pillow underneath him to make it easier, and slicks the same fingers up with lube. He holds him firmly with his gaze as he spreads his cheeks, testily nudging a thumb against him. Felix inhales. He pushes past his rim, impossibly gently, like he's scared he'll break.

 _Baby._

"Good, relax. Tell me if I should stop."

Chris doesn’t demand anything from him, he just opens him up, with one finger first, then a second, and a third. Felix breathing gets a little heavier, but he’s not moaning and whimpering and in fact he’s quiet, but his eyes are steady on Chris like he trusts him and that's enough. 

“Can you call me that again?”

“Baby?”

Felix nods, a small sob tearing through him. 

“It's okay. You’re precious, baby. Doing so well,” Chris praises him. “Is this alright? Feels good?” 

Felix nods again, more frantically now. 

Chris continues, loosening him up until three fingers slide in and out easily. “Tell me if this is okay or if I should stop.”

Felix mumbles in response. “It’s okay. I’m ready. Please.” 

"You want this?"

"I want this."

"Okay." He kisses him, gently, reassuringly, a thumb stroking down ,his cheek. "I'll take care of you. Promise."

When Chris finally presses inside, Felix feels safe again. He's big and it's a bit of a stretch and it burns but it's okay. And he expresses this to Chris too, when he looks alarmed at the way his face twists a little and a pitchy whimper escapes him. It's okay, it's good.

He drags nails down Chris's back, throws his legs up so he can angle himself better. And he does feel something. Not pure euphoria or anything, but his body does respond and he remembers how it's supposed to be.

Being close.

He starts crying again when Chris talks to him in between the gentle thrusts. When he tells him he's pretty and feels so good and that he really enjoys it and asks if it’s still okay for him. When he speaks as if Felix is giving him something _precious_. And he feels Chris inside every cell of himself. His pulse pounds a thousand decibels and the mattress is soaked underneath him and soon he's everything but cold and hollow. 

Felix grips him tighter, and Chris slides home, coming deep inside him.

Afterwards, he cleans him up. And he doesn't make it a huge deal that Felix didn't come. Instead he asks if he's alright, carries him to the shower, washes his hair with strawberry-scented shampoo. And then he just holds him, while hot water mixed with shower gel run down their backs.

“Want to cuddle?” 

The question arrives when they’re back in bed. Felix’s voice is thick with insecurity when he replies, now that it’s all over and he’s crashing hard. 

“I don’t know.”

He’s crashing because why would this person want him when there’s a million other people in the world. A million charming boys who can be loud and generous and passionate with him. Give him everything without inhibition.

He remains on the bed, head drooping, and considers collecting his clothes. Just disappear into the night, keep this as a nice memory and nothing more. But Chris's eyes are kind and his suggestion is kind of appealing.

“Come and cuddle.”

Felix turns to glance over his shoulder. Chris is still naked. Chris who has a string of water droplets spread across his chest and they glimmer when the light hits them. Chris with his still-damp hair framing his handsome face.

“Felix?”

“Will it all be ruined tomorrow? When we wake?”

He breathes through the silence, swallows down the coil of other memories. The not-Chris ones.

Chris looks at him. Sees his shoulder blades cringing. He wants to ask, but he won't, not now.

He drags himself towards him, snakes arms around his folded waist. Felix lets him. Lets him nestle into his hair and lets him promise things he might not mean but lets him kiss him like he means it, too.

“No. No it won’t be, baby. Nothing will be ruined.”

Felix will believe him, if only for tonight.


	2. maroon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello
> 
> Uni = university = college
> 
> [Chan's red coat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDMUTrOzGR4)
> 
> Ty for reading ♡ would love to hear your thoughts

Morning does come, as it has a habit to.

Chris is sleeping. He’s wet the pillow with a little stain of drool. Felix stands next to him, observing both the rise and fall of his chest, and the smudges of eyeliner left behind on his own, borrowed pillow. It’s dry now but yesterday it was soaked with his anguish.

He thinks. About what would happen if Chris woke.

Maybe he’d still be understanding and safe and sunny and maybe there would even be breakfast. But most likely not.

As he tiptoes out of the bedroom he stops in front of the kitchen. It's quaint. He and Chris could have breakfast here. Felix could even make waffles, if he has an iron. The thought makes him almost tear up in childish excitement because...no one ever lets him stay.

Never.

But there's also a risk that Chris would ask Questions.

Felix doesn't want to answer Questions. Doesn't want to Explain. Wants none of it.

Doesn't want this beautiful sand castle he's built for himself to crumble. If he stays, does the wrong thing and the moon brings the tide, it'll be over.

He allows himself a few minutes of wrangling back and forth. Then, after cringing himself back into his suspenders, he's outside. The pale, intrusive sunlight licks at his brittle form all the way home, and his head throbs with both shame and a merciless headache. 

Later, a handful of ibuprofen lulls him into an almost-coma, and he can forget again.

* * *

When Chris blinks into consciousness exactly fifteen minutes after Felix's departure, he spins around. But he already knows before that. 

Felix isn't there. 

He strokes the sheet, curls nails over it. It’s still warm. And it feels like someone is sitting inside him and stabbing his lungs with needles.

The narrow, body-shaped indent is the only sign of him even being here. That, plus the collection of flimsy imagery Chris has left. It's like snippets of film noir, monochrome because their entire time spent together was veiled in shadow.

But he remembers it. His touch, his smell, the duality of him. 

Remembers Felix's eyes fluttering shut somewhere between twilight and sunrise. By that time there had been cuddling. Not like, full-scaled cuddling or anything, but something resembling it. 

Like Felix's arm flapping about a little awkwardly, squeezed between himself and Chris when he settled next him after an eternity of hesitating. And Chris's arm sneaking around his neck and stroking down Felix's arm and just...a lot of arms everywhere.

Until Chris noticed Felix's flapping arm and how he looked a little squished and realized it must be uncomfortable. 

"Oh, shit, gave you T-rex arm." 

Then, Felix snorted. Like a grunt mixed with a sneeze and it was cute. After that they switched to horizontal cuddling and Felix lay on his tummy and avoided T-rex arm. And Chris’s bicep went absolutely numb since it acted as his pillow for quite some time.

But it’s not like that mattered one bit.

He'd watched him. Watched the moonlight roam over his freckles, selected parts of his slender body visible under the disheveled covers he'd already kicked off himself.

And what a face. Chris remembers the distinct shape of his lips, pointed cheekbones protruding like dunes in the sand. Every smooth dip and curve he remembers, all of them sculpted with care and fuck if he’d ever seen anything so breathtaking.

But no matter how wondrous, it’s a shell. Chris wants so much to crawl under the layers and layers of him. See everything, anything he wants to show. Mend what's broken.

And now, he might not get that chance. Because other than the distant echo of him, there's nothing. Not a note, not a phone number.

An ache fills him, carving him out slowly. And it's not the hangover, either. He'll accept it for what it is, but it's festering and eating away at him like a parasite in his gut.

It's the feeling of losing someone. And it's a strange sensation, when you didn't even fully realize you had them in the first place.

* * *

Autumn is a crisp breeze ruffling Felix’s bleached bangs. And the days treat him okay, really. There's something about autumn. He trudges to and from his classes, smiling politely when being engaged in conversation by people around him. Professors, kind-of-friends, acquaintances.

But he keeps everyone at a miles distance and it's getting colder. Having someone to spend autumn with would be potentially...nice. The touch of an inanimate object will always feel synthetic, even when it’s newly washed, soft sheets caressing his limbs.

Never will it feel as good as Chris's fingertips on his skin, as much as he tries to mindfuck himself into thinking the opposite.

Occasionally he thinks about the fact that he knows where Chris lives. He could show up. But after that thought occurs to him, Scenarios start playing in his head.

Scenarios where things have changed. Where the sun is a big fat yellow ogre that reveals the imperfections on Felix's skin and maybe it turns his freckles into unattractive ink blots. What if that same harsh light of day illuminates Chris's vision and he sees Felix for what he is. 

Sees the stains and the cracks running all the way to his core and what if.

But when he sleeps, he dreams. He conjures a perfect replica of Chris, one that encases him in cotton. And then Felix feels warm and safe again but it's not real. It’s not real, it's a moment frozen in time, pretty as a postage stamp but without any chance of progression or change.

Two weeks pass. Two weeks of just daydreaming. Until coincidence or fate, or what the hell something or other, interferes. Not that he believes in such things, but it seems uncanny in a huge metropolis like this.

By that time, all that remains of Chris are some specks of fairy dust occasionally sweeping through the hollow of his heart. And seeing him again is not the kind of sappily romantic moment where two estranged lovers lock eyes and sparks fly, nah.

It's actually dull and anticlimactic and Felix dragging his feet home from uni a Friday afternoon when the sky is a soupy white. It's a random decision to take a detour through a park.

Just because why not.

In the park, in front of a fountain, there's people. A small flock of them, the audience to a group of dancers performing a k-pop choreography. Nothing out of the ordinary, Felix has seen many of them.

But he’s never seen Chris dance (well, at the club, but that doesn't count) and now he does. And he’s not sure it’s even him at first, but when he’s sure, he’s captivated.

It’s definitely him. It’s him and he’s wearing a long, fiery red coat that swivels around him as he twists and turns. And he’s agile like a feline and powerful like a steam engine when he dances. Felix stays glued to the spot as he watches him, and forgets to leave. All he can do is watch, with his teeth digging into his lower lip, harder the more of it he sees. 

He lurks behind a wall of citizens. But at some point after the beat has died out and the crowd has applauded, he loses sight of him. Then, he blinks.

And when he blinks again, Chris stands there. 

Not just Chris, but his shoulders too. His broad shoulders and peroxide hair and deeply set eyes lined with rusted copper. 

But why couldn't it have been any other day. Because Chris looks all kinds of impressive while Felix is such a far cry from last time. No suspenders, no rosy cheeks. Instead there's a linty beanie, a washed out gray t-shirt and a moldy green army jacket, meh clothing for meh days. Why couldn’t it just have been some other day.

What he doesn’t know is that washed out gray and moldy green are Chris’s new favorite colors.

"You look like I've seen you before."

Felix’s mouth must hang slightly open, but other than that he has no idea what he does with his body for the next minute. He may or may not settle his face into something between a grimace and an attempted smile. It’s all a little fuzzy.

Chris remains attentive to his dazed condition. Makes sure not to step too close.

"So...you left, huh.”

"Yeah...sorry. I’m sorry," Felix manages. And feels ashamed.

"It’s alright. I told you that anything you wanted was okay. No need to be sorry."

Felix can't tell if Chris is upset or not. His eyes just have a certain melancholy to them, like all the time. Like he's the type of person whose face remains placid no matter what. Like an ocean never stirred by a storm.

Then, there’s an infinity’s worth of nothing. Not a “how are you?” from Felix, not even that. Just an impassive stare while Chris waits patiently for some sign of life. And then Felix sees more melancholy pool into his eyes and sees his teeth, exposed by the vivacious smile.

"Okay. It was nice seeing you again, baby."

_Baby._

"You know where to find me. Take care of yourself."

His shoes, a pair of neon-yellow sneakers, kick up gravel as he saunters off. Ten more seconds, and then he’ll be out of shouting distance.

A movie plays on Felix’s retina. 

It starts serenely like all movies. Then, there’s conflict. Like all movies, like all great novels. 

No great masterpiece is ever just monotonous fun times and peace. There's lumps and bumps but Felix doesn't want any plot twists. Doesn’t need to witness another tranquil beginning descend into chaos.

Won’t, can’t.

His movie should just be linear and uneventful and calm, like a nature documentary about blobfish.

Sensible-Felix starts walking off, but Real-Felix starts a riot. Real-Felix is lost, ever since he saw the first hint of faint dimple.

Real-Felix yells. A shrill _wait!_

And Chris turns, his coat vivid against the backdrop of yellowing trees.

* * *

His apartment is still the same. A little messy, but cozy. Not like Felix's apartment where everything is neat and tidy because that helps him keep his thoughts organized.

Helps keep everything from spiraling.

Chris's red coat lays in a heap by the front door because he was too lazy to use a hanger. (That’s what he said.) 

_It’s okay for things to be a little crumpled_ , he also said, while pouring a glass of wine for Felix.

Felix remembers how absolutely animated he looked in his red coat. His facial expressions when he danced. His lips curling into a sly grin, the way he'd looked a little like a dangerous, wind-swept predator. 

It makes Felix swallow down a lump, because that’s both scary and exciting.

"You're really good at dancing," he squeaks.

"Thanks. You're really good at dancing too."

"You haven't even seen me dance."

"We danced at the club, remember?”

He remembers. How could he forget. But he doesn't remember it as a chunk of reality, but as a little strip of alternate universe where he's Not-Felix.

Not-Felix is poised and buzzing thanks to the alcohol, and confident enough to push himself against Chris on the dancefloor. Not-Felix has no cracks. And now Real-Felix has taken his place again, a washed out version of Not-Felix and everything he says comes out stale and dry as dust.

"So what have you been up to since you left?"

Chris sips wine at the other end of the couch, and looks genuinely interested. Felix provides a pitchy _umm._ The kind that curls upwards at the end. The kind people start with when they're about to provide Interesting Facts about themselves. 

But other than numbly listening to his professors, Real-Felix has just kind of existed. With cooling cups of coffee forgotten next to him by the kitchen table as dusk turns into dawn outside his window.

He ponders.

He's suffered many small, internal deaths, of course. Ones that puncture your organs just a little.

But he says the following:

"Uhm...not much," and then a nonchalant shrug.

This is the sales pitch, and he's doing horribly, because there's nothing to him. 

When Chris asks him about his life, it's boring. It's stiff and not at all engaging. 

Yes, he's a student. 

Yes, he lives by himself. 

Yes, he occasionally goes out (then, he becomes Not-Felix). 

“So wait. How old are you? What are you studying at uni? 

“I’m...nineteen. It’s my first year and I’m a lit student. Korean language and literature.”

According to Chris, that’s interesting. But it’s not interesting at all and Felix would actually much rather study music. 

He peers at Chris. The wine nudges him forward.

“How old are you?”

He finds out. Twenty-two. 22. Two and two. Ten plus ten plus two. He has a whole three years more worth of life experience than Felix. Then, there's a whole slew of other information. He studies acting but has taken a gap year and he works part-time at a restaurant and is a member of a dance crew. And he also writes and produces music in his spare time.

Like, actual music for actual artists.

“That’s just...wow,” Felix marvels, wide-eyed (and now he feels insecure).

“Well...you know, just like being creative. Are you into creative stuff at all? Your voice is really...nice. Like really dark and mysterious. Bet you’re a good singer.”

Felix busies himself with his wine. Wonders if it’ll leave him with patches on his teeth.

“Nah, I mean...I don’t know, I’m just focusing on uni right now I guess…”

Lie. He loves to sing, but he never sings in front of people.

“...and...yeah. There’s not really much to tell.”

Chris doesn’t look convinced. Mumbles, _I’m sure that’s not the case._

But it's only a matter of time until his smile morphs into that strained expression that signals _I want you to leave but I’m too polite to ask you to._ If he can read it correctly, that is.

Because Chris is the embodiment of self-assured and sociable and Felix just can’t be extroverted and radiant like he can. He has some recollection of being like that too.

Long ago.

But he tries. So very hard. Because if he does and smiles alluringly and flutters his lashes then maybe. 

"Want to hear another shitty Australian joke?"

"Oh yeah. Hit me with your best."

Felix nibbles on his lip. Keeps the tremble of his voice at bay.

"Australians don't have sex. They...mate."

Chris almost chokes on a mouthful of wine. He neighs like a horse and his nose expands when he laughs and his entire face scrunches into a raisin and it's so charming. Felix laughs with him, genuinely.

"Sorry, did I almost kill you?"

"Yeah...that's...so lame. So lame. So awful."

"I know. It's terrible."

Felix chats a little more freely after this. Chris's laptop plays mellow music, and soon the world is all inky black outside. 

A feeling of impending doom sprouts in Felix's gut, amplifying with every passing hour, even though he likes nights.

He could leave. He doesn’t want to.

But there's a natural progression to things and darkness signals that it's time for more after all this talking and wine sipping. And if Felix can read Chris correctly, he wants it. There’s molten lava flowing in his eyes, and Felix notices him chewing on his lip ever so often.

That's why he leans in and kisses Chris and it's like that night. It's exactly the same. It's hesitant and careful at first but it doesn’t last. Heat floods between them, strings of electricity pulling them closer together. 

Maybe at some point he straddles Chris (what a tease) and the kisses intensify and Chris is panting into his mouth.

And then he's hard against Felix's ass. His thighs in faux leather pants made Felix a little flustered the moment he saw them earlier. Now the shiny material expands underneath him as the bulge inside them grows.

That's the point of no return again. Because it's like the plot to a great novel, it has its distinct course of events. There's the build up and the release and if there's no release it's just unsatisfactory. Everyone knows that.

But wine has made him a little tipsy and it's so much easier. 

He slides down, knees hitting the rug in front of Chris. 

"What are you —"

Felix doesn't respond. He just undoes his fly, drags everything down and reveals him. And he’s stiff and ready and swollen. He closes his hands around his shaft, fumbling. He doesn't look up at Chris, he can't, but he hopes it looks kind of seductive anyway from his point of view.

Felix's jaw creaks when he opens and takes him into his mouth. It's awkward and he doesn't know where to put his hands but his tongue falls out and he’s licking and sucking. And it’s an almost-kind-of-okay.

But he doesn't get far. Chris cringes himself out of his mouth, straightening himself out.

"What are you doing?"

Felix blinks up at him.

"What do you mean? Isn't it good?"

"You don't want this."

"I do. I want it."

Then, he stubbornly looks away. Chris leans forward and gets down on the floor, cups Felix's cheeks with his palms.

"No, you don't. No you don't, I can see it in your body language."

"But you have a boner."

"Yeah I have a boner...so what? It's just a physical reaction. It doesn't mean you have to do anything with it."

Felix stays quiet, mulling this over. Chris's gaze is perceptive on him, so satiny soft.

"Why do you do things you don't want to?"

"I don't know."

"What do _you_ want to do?"

Chris watches Felix as he sits there, knees folded and palms resting on them. He looks so lost. His t-shirt is hanging haphazardly, exposing a bit of collar bone, a tuft of his hair sticking out in the back. Eyes a little glossy. And again Chris wants to ask, and again he doesn’t. 

“Can I take you to my bedroom?”

Felix must provide some kind of affirmative answer, because next he's aware of Chris’s hands gripping his chest and then his thighs and then he crashes into the sheets. 

The surroundings are diffused shadows mixed with soft edges, cast by many strings of fairy lights.

Chris crawls behind him. Felix closes his eyes, feels small gusts of hot air fanning his cheek.

"Tell me what you want."

Flowers bloom on his neck as Chris pecks at it, just very very lightly.

"Do you...maybe...want to kiss more?"

Another peck. 

"Or just...lay here? Or...take a trip around the world? Or bungee jump?" 

Felix titters. Chris's hand slides further up his side, dragging the hem of his tee with it. It's instantly smoothed out. 

"Or...watch a movie? I have loads. Like a whole nerdy collection of horror flicks."

Felix lets him nuzzle into his neck. He grumbles something about being too scared to watch horror movies, and Chris's lips stretch into a grin on his skin.

"Scaredy cat. We could also do...nothing. I think doing nothing with you would be so fun."

Then, Felix caves into the safety of his chest fully.

What he wants sounds so dumb. When he finally says it, it's muffled, because he’s chewing on his nails and stuttering a little.

"Could you...touch me?"

But Chris is close enough to catch it.

"Where do you want me to touch you, baby?"

He has to repeat it. Repeat it and blanket Felix with his body, careful not to accidentally poke him with his boner because he's worried he'll just break any second. He sounds so fragile again. But he pulls it out of him, one shaky word at a time.

 _Thighs._

And neck and tummy and thighs and thighs and thighs. _If you could please please touch me there._

On the _please_ he almost breaks. Chris has cajoled him into turning. He watches his adam’s apple vibrate as he shoves a gob of emotion down.

"It's okay, it's okay. I’ll touch you right there. Can I undress you?”

Felix nods frantically. His breath sits densely in his throat as Chris runs a hand underneath his shirt. He peels everything off. Occasionally he murmurs _lift_ or _roll over_ and soon Felix is bare and laying there again.

He braves a hushed request. 

"Can you...too?"

A moment later Chris has shimmied out of his pants and he’s naked. His cheeks are a little flushed from the wine and he's towering over him and for a brief second Felix worries.

That he'll want to do more, that he's...frustrated. Because there's so very obviously a bulge in his briefs still and it feels rude not to take care of it.

But all that happens is that Chris looks at him adoringly and hiccups softly and hunches down.

Felix shivers underneath him, and whimpers kind of shamelessly. And it's odd because he's usually quiet. But Chris's mouth is suddenly on his inner thigh, one of his hands curling around it and elevating it slightly.

“Your thighs are beautiful. So is all of you. You're beautiful here."

He points to a spot on Felix's thigh. Nips at the skin.

"And here..."

Another one.

"And here. And everywhere. Both inside and outside."

Chris works his thighs. Sprinkles them with kisses and sucks on them until there's marks and the blood vessels burst under his lips. His hands stroke all over (except there), until all of Felix is prickled red and pretty.

"How does that feel?"

"Feels...so good."

It’s so simple. It feels good that Chris's mouth is on him. His mind isn't going haywire, because time and space has come to a halt and all that exists is this room, a tiny safe space inside a static vacuum.

It's safe because Felix stays tucked in his boxers and Chris doesn't reach for him when he twitches and moans quietly into the night. His inner thighs end up littered with love bites, painted in varying shades of light and dark. Chris asks him what he wants, and Felix draws him in with chocolate irises under half closed lids.

Then Chris worms his way up to him, leaving goosebumps where his touch happens to linger. He kisses patterns over his tummy, palms traveling over the soft ripples of his ribs. And then, his tongue brushes over his chest and over his collar bones and lands in his mouth.

Chris’s kisses are like a million flapping butterflies over Felix's skin, leaving tiny trails of spit in their wake. He briefly touches the curve of his lips as he pulls back, his eyes crinkling when Felix smiles shyly underneath his finger.

"What more do you like, pretty baby?"

There’s a beat, and then he dares say it, again.

"I like...having my back touched."

At this point Felix has let go of the mental block. At this point he momentarily trusts Chris to maybe not judge and think that it’s all so lame and not exciting at all.

"Back rubs?" Chris pulls him up. He carefully maneuvers him so he's sitting between his legs, with the covers around them. "You like...shoulder rubs? Massage sort of thing?"

Felix lets out a squeaky, affirmative noise. Chris chuckles at his cute antics. And then his hands are all over Felix's back. His shoulder blades shift and cringe and he melts into a little pool of liquidated bone and skin because it feels so good. He's always loved massages and it's been so long since he had one, so long. Tears well up in his eyes again. Because it unties all the knots. 

He sniffles and Chris hears it. Hears it and works his arms around his front and hugs him through it all. But it's just a tiny cry, only a few minutes, not like last time.

After that Felix kind of loiters inside his own mind. He's laying on his side after he's fallen into the sheets again, and Chris’s voice travels somewhere close to his ear

"Felix..."

He blinks through the thin film of confusion, sees Chris face hovering above him.

"Good evening, sir."

"Hey...sorry, I kind of zoned out a while."

"That's okay. Are you relaxed? Warm? Comfortable?"

Felix checks. Sensible-Felix sits in a corner, sulking and doubtful. He pokes at Real-Felix, asks him if this really is the best idea. But Real-Felix is a little ball of warmth and doesn’t care.

"Yeah. You're so nice."

"Good. Ramen.”

“Hm?”

A minute later the covers act like Felix's personal burrito and he’s seated by Chris's kitchen table. Chris cooks them ramen, humming as he rummages around. The kitchen light is forgiving, and Felix snuggles into his burrito.

“Late night munchies are my fave, seriously. There’s something so...I don’t know, like...nice about cooking late at night. Like you’re not supposed to be up then and that makes it...nice.”

Chris stares into space a moment. The water boils.

"Or just like being up late in general. There's something special and mysterious about nights. Like everything is softer."

“Yeah," Felix says breathlessly. "Yeah, I totally agree."

His tummy growls as Chris sets the bowls down. He smirks when it makes Felix dive down the opening to the burrito to hide.

“This was apparently the right call. You’re one hungry boy.”

“No,” Felix claims, while blowing on his ramen to get it to cool instantly.

It’s kind of the best he’s had in a while. Perfectly al dente. He’s done in no time, and when he is, he’s given a bubble tea to sip. He hasn’t had bubble tea in so long, either, and it's so sweet.

Back in bed, Chris runs a finger down the pillars of his spine, all the way to his back dimples. And Felix is sensitive to his touch now, reacting with bated breath to every single one.

"Do you want to spoon?

There's a yes, in the form of a sleepy nod.

"Want to be the little spoon?"

Felix curls up snugly in his arms, clinging to him for comfort he's unused to. And he almost dozes off, but Chris doesn't. When Felix pries his eyes open the room still bathes in faint orange and yellow and the time shows 3:30 AM. Chris is resting his chin in the crook of his neck, but when he notices him rousing he props himself up on an elbow instead.

He looks thoughtful. His hair is shimmery in the pastel light. Felix glances at the clock. 

"Can't you sleep?"

"I don't know. Don't want to."

"Why?"

The melancholy in his eyes transfers into a little sigh. He soaks Felix up, as much of him as he can before they have to turn the lights off.

"Because you might not be here when I wake."


	3. hickory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi
> 
> Heads up for slight language and angst uwu
> 
> Ty for reading ♡ always love hearing what you thought

When Chris zaps awake this time, he already knows.

Felix _is_ there.

Because he can feel him. 

Now he's laying there. A small body in a sea of fabrics, white walls towering over him. And his face isn’t twisted with any negative emotion, sadness, fear, embarrassment. Just a blank canvas, round, chipmunk teeth peeking out of the gap in his mouth, eyelashes fluttering just lightly as he maybe senses Chris next to him. 

It's probably what he looked like before. Before something happened and launched him into a state of constant caution, as if he’s just walking around waiting for an apocalypse.

Because something must have happened.

But right now, Chris just wants to cry with relief cause he's here. Because he didn't subconsciously startle himself awake at dawn so he could take a hike and maybe that means he's planted a little seed of trust in Chris.

He'll keep it safe best he can.

Gently, he croons him awake with measured movements. Nothing rough, no shaking his shoulders or anything. Just fingers on his cheeks, dotting at every freckle. Dot, dot, dot. Counting them, too. One, two, three. There's too many, and he loves every single one separately.

As Felix rouses, there's confusion leaking into half-lidded eyes. Maybe even fear, maybe embarrassment. Or a mix of the three, Chris can't really tell. 

"Hey there, sunshine."

The sun assaults them, painting Felix’s face in 4k with zero consideration as per usual. In one harsh tug, he pulls the comforter over himself, wiggling about until he's fully encapsulated. Chris watches for a while, as the little lump twitches and breathes.

He paws at it. "Requesting permission to enter."

When it doesn't come, he enters anyway. Crawling inside, he finds 140 pounds worth of limbs packaged into fetal position, with downturned lips and a tear-stained face.

"Hey. It's okay."

He scoots close, pries Felix’s fingers off his face when he just wants to hide. 

"No it's not."

"Why not?"

To that, Felix laughs bitterly, which only unleashes more tears down his flushed cheeks.

"What do you mean _why not_ – I cried and acted like a fucking kid last night, I feel so _stupid_ and now I'm crying again –"

"It's _okay._ "

The second time he seals it with a kiss. Felix wants to protest, mumble something about _icky_ _morning breath_ and _dry chapped lips_. Or maybe he does that, he's not sure. If he does, Chris just counters it by deepening the kiss. Softening him up until he surrenders and turns into pliant mush.

"Not stupid. Never stupid. You didn't do anything wrong and you're funny and sweet and not allowed to say that about yourself. Is that clear?"

It takes a while, but eventually he relents to the calming notes of Chris's voice and provides the tiniest hint of a nod. Chris lets his hand travel over his side, over the fabric of his own t-shirt that Felix borrowed for the night. Mossy green. Looks so complimentary against his pale complexion, flowing and wrinkling as he moves.

He's drowning in it, and it looks so right. Like he’s meant to wear nothing but Chris’s shirts for the rest of his life. He lets his hand linger on the narrowest part of his waist, fingering at the material and feeling him draw a shaky breath inward. 

It's soft.

But not as soft as Felix's skin. And he knows this, because he's touched it, and honestly laying tightly entwined with him...does things to him.

"Do you know how pretty you are?"

Felix shyly drops his gaze, even daring to object with a muttered _no I'm not._ Chris just snorts to that, his hand continuing down the small of Felix's back and even further. Maybe he lets it stray just a little too far down the curve of his behind, just accidentally.

They lay closely tangled together, just hugging each other, and soon he finds himself with morning wood. And it's digging into Felix's bare thigh, but Chris hopes he understands by now that there’s no demands.

“Please excuse my inappropriate boner. We don't have to do anything, you're just...really soft."

The corners of Felix’s pretty, heart-shaped mouth elevate, finally.

“You're excused.” 

As Chris's finger brushes near his temple, he notices his eyes crinkle. 

"Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah," Felix confirms. And follows it up with a wince and a pout.

After fifteen minutes or so he's looking out the window in Chris's kitchen. It's sort of half-cloudy now. Not blinding nor depressing.

That's what he prefers, just medium. No harsh lines.

Chris is the one flipping waffles, but otherwise it's exactly like he pictured. His kitchen is such an extension of himself. Cozy, radiating warmth, perpetually messy.

Not like Felix's where there's an odd, sweltering atmosphere, like the walls are alive and weeping a sorrowful tune.

This is his dream. And yet he expects it to shatter any second, exposing the empty canvas underneath.

Chris turns when he feels Felix regarding him. Sees him resting elbows on the table, fingers digging strings of sleep out of his eyes.

"Are you alright?"

Is he?

"Yeah, I'm...you're honestly so nice. You're way too nice to me."

"Nope. Oh shit, painkillers. Forgot."

He deposits them on the table, along with a bottle of water.

"Thanks...wine always gives me a headache. Or I'm just a lightweight, or both."

"Poor baby."

Chris's fingers trace over his neck, momentarily swirling into his hair. He's always so gentle with him. Like Felix is someone worthy of love and consideration. He rests his chin in his hands, feeling the thrumming ache dissipating as Chris works the knots in his shoulders.

After a while, Chris slumps down next to him. The waffle iron sizzles in the background.

"Do you want to spend the day with me?"

Does he?

"We can do anything." His fingers curl into Felix's on top of the table. "We can go catch a movie. Or go to a café or cook or go on a road trip. The world is ours to explore."

“You have a car?”

“Oh yeah.”

Without really noticing, Felix smiles heartily. How can he decline when Chris sits there promising him the sun and the stars and unexplored galaxies. Pulling him in with the eyes deep like mires.

Without really noticing, he nods.

* * *

The leaves shine a brilliant red and Felix blooms with a new feeling.

Suddenly the world isn't all dull and overcast even when the sun actually sets earlier every day.

And even when it is, he notices things he didn't use to.

Like a tiny weed breaking out of the asphalt as he seemingly floats to and from uni. And cute little things, like random people holding hands and looking at each other fondly. Maybe he even smiles a little brighter at his professors, kind-of-friends and acquaintances.

It sprouts somewhere within his torpid loins, worming its way through the thick cobwebs of his heart. It's...warm. It feels like frolicking in confetti rain.

It's catching himself singing one of Chris’s songs as he does the dishes. It's using a voice message sent by him as a bedtime story because it’s like ASMR and lulls him to sleep like, _this_ fast. It’s his soul doing a double barrel roll out of pure joy whenever Chris does or says, well, anything.

It’s smiling when there’s no specific reason to.

Is it how infatuation feels? It must be.

Comfortable, like hot sand against sun-kissed skin.

Felix hasn't had Chris inside him since that first time, the only time. Occasionally he wants to, but doesn't know how to suggest it. Chris asks him what he wants and gives him all of it generously without asking for anything in return.

He brushes his hair. Gives him massages. Explores him like he’s a whole unmapped playground.

But they've reached the point of the movie where routine has been established and the first plot twist lurks just around the corner. Felix entire being is on tenterhooks, expecting the missile that will set it off.

Sensible-Felix can’t, for the love of him, get to the bottom of _why._ Why he’s still there, how.

When Felix only provides him sparse information, muttered, avoidant replies, Chris fills in the gaps. Because he's an entertainer, a social butterfly with a tinkling laugh and funny one liner constantly on standby.

He's almost too perfect. Alarm bells start ringing.

Real-Felix and Sensible-Felix have a tug of war inside him. Who wins depends on the day. 

If it's Sensible-Felix, Chris’s messages might remain unread on Felix’s phone for hours. Many long, long hours. Then, Chris worries, naturally. And Felix just lays in bed. The phone lays next to him within arms reach as it beeps and beeps and beeps. He always answers though, eventually and with an explanation handy.

But usually it’s good. Real-Felix leaps excitedly as the pair of them watch movies, go for walks, play Uno, cook things. Like ramen. They have a ramen taste test, checking if they can stomach the very spiciest one they manage to find.

They can, but Felix cry-laughs for about an hour afterwards, while Chris pours milk down his throat and bites his lip to keep himself from combusting with laughter.

* * *

The first leaf makes its descent, and then all of them at once. It’s freezing, and a plot twist looms.

Because suddenly it’s one of those days. They just creep up on Felix, uninvited. And Chris’s messages lay forgotten in his phone since a record forty-eight hours and the pillow chafes against his tear-prickled cheek.

There's that strange emptiness within him again. The trio of Felixes sit deep inside him, gathered in silent vigil around a table in a garden that mostly resembles a graveyard. There's biscuits and intricately designed cups but the tea party has been interrupted by torrential rain. Their stiff fingers hold crumpled umbrellas and none of them have much to say.

That's why the phone stays on silent and Felix doesn't change position, not even when his t-shirt bunches uncomfortably underneath his ribs. 

While he’s laying somewhere in the borderline between a lucid dream and reality, the oldest, grainiest film occasionally plays. There’s voices and sharp edges and a dulling blade cutting him and _fuck –_ what wouldn’t he do to be able to press delete.

A sob claws its way out, a single one.

Afternoon turns to evening and it's not until then he heaves himself up, or more like down. He falls out of bed, even though every bone in his body screams at him to get back in.

There’s no coffee. There’s no anything. He feels light-headed, and the cupboard is angrily slammed shut.

The mirror in the hallway shows a hollow-cheeked creature and the t-shirt is days old and hangs off his bony shoulders and he doesn't give a shit. He covers the unwashed hair with a beanie, and abuses the door with another slam as he leaves.

On the way to the Starbucks next to his building he thinks about what the messages on his phone might say. Bits of text flit through his mind rapidly, kindly provided by Sensible-Felix.

Things like:

1\. You're an asshole for not answering.

2\. I want to break up (are they even a couple?)

3\. Don't bother texting me ever again. PS Your freckles are ugly.

By the time he swings the door open, he's certain it's all three. Maybe even hopes for it, because then he can descend into mindless hibernation again.

"Medium americano, thanks."

While he waits for his order, his gaze wanders. Everything looks the same. Citizens sipping and chatting and going about their business (unaware of the storm raging inside him.)

There's a certain safety to it. Same brown walls, same smell of multimillion industry roast, same old neighborly ambience. 

But as he prepares to leave, a red fleck in the corner catches his attention. It's someone in a red coat.

The someone is Chris. And the first Felix thinks is that he lights up the entire establishment with his presence. It’s such a contrast to the cedar brown backdrop. He hasn't noticed Felix yet where he’s standing. Frozen, and soaking up the following Scenario;

Chris. But not just him. A table, too. A couple of croissants and cups containing something, probably tea. Because Chris doesn’t like coffee. And – there’s a guy. Opposite him, a tall young guy has just finished giggling at something he said. His hair reaches below his ears and when his mouth falls open Felix spots a very organized row of teeth.

He leans closer.

Felix watches his smile stretch all the way to his eyes.

As he remains transfixed, the coffee cup burns his hand, because they forgot to give him a cardboard holder.

In the middle of a burst of shrill, goofy laughter, Chris happens to glance his way. Felix hears it die out, but doesn’t catch whatever reaction follows immediately after. Because then his feet carry him – out the door – around the block – up the stairs – into his safe haven – and the door _slams_ shut for the second time.

The walls reverberate from the impact and he shudders through a breath.

_No overreacting, Felix._

Chris met with someone else. Because Felix is ignoring him. That's to be expected. The Someone Else has flawless teeth and looks like a well-rounded, stable individual.

And they were so close that they almost eskimo-kissed. Just like Felix and Chris did during their first meeting.

The coffee is left untouched on his nightstand as Felix escapes under the comforter. Inside his little nest, he chews nails into stumps, fighting back whatever wants to emerge. Sensible-Felix paces back and forth, engaged in blaring monologue with himself, ruminating over what all this might mean.

Speculating, wildly, until Felix tells him to _fuck off_.

Then, the doorbell rings. And Felix doesn't even drag a hand through his clotted hair, doesn't even change his t-shirt. He rips the door open and then Chris stands there, obviously.

He followed Felix upstairs, obviously. He's invited in, obviously.

“Hey, Felix.”

“Hi.”

Felix acts irrationally insecure and grossly arrogant as he procrastinates and veers off when Chris tries to catch his eyes. Then, he hears him sigh in defeat and throw his coat to the side.

"I saw you at the Starbucks but you just left?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Just didn't want to disturb you. You looked so cozy and preoccupied."

He idles petulantly on the spot. Stares blankly at anything but Chris’s dimples. One of his fingernails is busy re-opening a scab on his elbow. Chris is usually an expert at reading him, but right now, he might as well speak Mandarin.

"You're aware that you haven't answered my texts or calls for two whole days, right? Did you lose your phone or something? Because I've been kinda worried sick and I didn't even know where you live. Couldn’t even come check up on you or anything."

He tries to not sound too accusatory, but it’s true. Worried is just the beginning of it. He notices Felix’s volatile hands, steps forward, seizes his wrist. Watches him recoil and raise some odd invisible wall between them. 

"I know. Sorry. I didn't lose my...I don't know why I didn't answer, it's…”

Felix’s head shakes back and forth, because there’s no satisfactory justification. The truth, well. That’s out of the question.

_I didn’t answer because I’m scared. Of this, of everything. Of life._

Yeah, what. Not even remotely logical.

“...I don't know. I've been feeling kinda down. But there's no excuse, I'm sorry," he ends it lamely. He risks a harsh _no_ when Chris asks him if he’s hungry. No, no, and no. A clear all negative to the pesky Questions.

“But you look...tired. You said you've been feeling down? Are you okay now? What did you do all day?” 

"Nothing special. I’m great now.” Felix raises his chin, manages a crooked smile. “So who’s that guy you were with?"

Chris shrugs. The fog is clearing. "It was just a friend, Felix."

"You looked pretty close for just friends."

A new Felix – _Jealous-Felix_ – spits it out. And oh how snappy and passively aggressive it sounds, so much that it ricochets back in his own face in the form of a grimace. Chris instantly shuffles closer, attentive as ever.

“Felix.” He reaches for his hands where they hang limply by his sides. “What will it take for you to understand that I want you?"

There’s no accusation anymore. Just the tranquil ocean bidding him to get lost in it again. Felix’s eyes are glued to the peeling white letters (supreme) on his t-shirt.

"I don't know _why_ you want me."

Rather than getting into a verbal fight with him, Chris ventures closer. Loops arms around his waist and tugs until he gives in and noses over his collarbone and feels the regret pooling because he smells so good. Peppermint tea and whatever that cologne he uses is called.

"I'm so sorry for not answering.” It’s muffled, spoken into the junction of Chris's neck.

"It's alright. But please, don’t ignore my messages again. Don't torture me like that, even if...whatever your reasoning is. Fuck, I was worried."

Felix nods about a thousand times, and breathes a teary request into his t-shirt.

"Can you just kiss me?"

Obviously, he can. Chris’s body – broad, firm, powerful – made to be admired – closes around Felix once more. It hasn’t, for four whole days, and in that time he’s already managed to go stone cold. Now he’s defrosting, and doesn’t even consider the fact that it’s Chris's first time in his apartment or remember to feel self-conscious about it.

His mind is occupied with all things Chris. Chris when he runs hands all over his, neck, back, cheeks. Chris when he smiles, as if Felix is someone worth having.

“I missed you, baby. So much.”

The tongue in his mouth feels familiar. So does the voice when he speaks with a comforting mixture of Korean and Australian English, the way it seems to drip out of his mouth, all over Felix’s skin like candle wax.

Sensible-Felix is bluntly pushed aside by Not-Felix, who lights a fire somewhere in the gaping hole within Real-Felix. 

And he isn’t exactly sure what the string of action is that leads him there. There's probably talking and some pressing questions asked by Chris but suddenly Felix's shoulder blades meet the wall and Chris is bracketed around him, still kissing him.

But he doesn’t feel trapped – in fact he thinks he’s the one who dragged him there. Felix melts into the touch, whimpers into his mouth – urgently, softly, but other parts of him harden. 

It’s like some lumpy object wedged inside him loosens to allow the blood flow freely and then – it crashes through him. Makes his gut twist in on itself, wanting.

He realizes his sweatpants feel tight. And the next words are spoken against Chris’s throat.

“Chris –”

“Yeah?”

“Could you – uh –”

“What do you – oh.”

Sudden anticipation colors Felix’s high cheekbones a dusted pink when Chris disentangles them. As his gaze drops he notices. He also notices how wrecked he already is, his chest making his torso roll against the wall with a feverish need he hasn’t witnessed before.

“Are you sure you want it...there?”

Felix answers by pushing up against him. Electricity surges through Chris, waking him up as Felix clings to him, grinds his crotch against his thigh. And the consent flows out of him in a garbled stream, _yes, yes, yes, yes,_ please, please, please. Chris's confusion and hesitation mingles with the hammering of his heart but Felix pulls him along, not to the bedroom, but to the bathroom. Because it's closest and because he feels sticky.

Clothes end up on the floor. Chris manhandles him, gently, the pulsating body to lean against the wall as he turns the water on. 

“You're absolutely sure about –”

“ _Yeah,_ Chris, please, fuck.”

Felix’s lip is caught between his teeth, nails scraping down the chest of the man supporting him. Chris observes his perked dick for a moment (and is a little shocked) before looming over him, leaning down to hum against wet, trembling skin. He skims a testy finger over his shaft. It’s smooth just like the rest of him.

“You alright? Want this?”

_“Yes.”_

Felix's breaths fizzle out of him, short and choppy. Wet dollops cascade in front of his eyes as he peers down, at Chris’s hand closing around him. And then his mind is blank. This – this can't be right, can’t be _real._ That he's feeling this, he thinks dimly, but doesn’t dwell on it. There’s thick white steam, and thick white noise, like the blur in one of his dreams.

Chris’s hand is slightly larger than his. Fingers thicker, longer, calloused. And his stroke is soft, but insistent as it picks up. Felix lets out a whine of his name. He doesn’t think still, he just feels. Tingling limbs and purple sparks all the way into his fingertips. 

“You’re so pretty, baby...so pretty.”

The praise registers to him vaguely. He’s steadied by Chris’s other hand around his waist. His bones ache, toes curling against the tile flooring, his stomach furling and unfurling itself as his lungs thrash about.

And suddenly he doesn’t have an ounce of inhibition left.

He fucks Chris's hand with some insane, rarely experienced primal urge, hips snapping forward, hard and fast. 

Chris nibbles at his neck, claims his mouth, holding him upright when his knees almost give in. The flowing water gathers between them, steam rising all around like a cloud.

Felix shudders. Shudders and comes in like, no time.

It’s been so long. His release lingers on Chris's fingers for just a split second before he watches it wash down the drain. Then he stares, deliriously. Hears dribbling water and Chris asking him if he's okay and if it was good. Sees his erection just below him, swollen and _veiny_ and just begging for attention.

And then, somehow he’s on his knees. Above him, Chris erupts in wild opposition as Felix drags him in by his hips.

“Felix, _no_ , what are you doing –”

“I _want_ to.”

There’s no quivering hesitation in his voice, or in his features. But Chris still ponders at light’s speed – is...this...right? This isn’t slow or restrained, this is hasty and chaotic and everything Felix logically _doesn’t_ want, according to his experience.

"No, what the hell, the floor is hard, get your ass up," he blubbers, finally, patting at Felix’s shoulder and motioning for him to get up.

"It's _fine._ "

Chris researches him, on the verge of just forcing him up again. But his boner hovers just close to Felix’s parting lips and then...his tongue falls out.

He mouths over the wet expanse of his abdomen, and Chris is stuck in a haze, doesn’t have it in him to protest as his dick drags across his cheek.

The rough tile floor digs into Felix's knees and he doesn’t care. He might not know what he’s doing and he doesn’t care about that either.

He _wants_ to feel it.

Shifting, he grips his hips, braves an experimental lick. A lingering brush of his tongue – slick, twitching, so fucking soft – from base to tip, and Chris’s head crashes back hard as his eyes clench tight. _Jesus_. His hand fumbles for purchase, turning down the water pressure as he finds the handle so Felix won’t drown. 

Felix looks up at him just momentarily after giving it a few more tries, hopeful.

“Is...that...does it feel okay? Tell me if I should do something different.”

Chris lets out a snort in disbelief. This is. just..he doesn’t know how to express it.

“Yeah, _yes_ , _yes_ , that’s fucking good, it's amazing."

The water runs in leisurely rivulets down Felix’s back, chunks of hair plastering to his forehead as he takes him further into his mouth. And Chris doesn’t quite know where to put his hands, so he tangles them in Felix’s soaked, ashen strands, carefully pushing them out of the way.

His tongue curls perfectly around him, sloppy, eager all of a sudden, dragging hot and wet as Chris presses, very shallowly into the velvet warmth.

“Oh... _shit_ …Felix…”

He's lost. All he can comprehend is that he’s coming, like, _fucking soon_ , and that this version of Felix is unknown to him. Totally new and undiscovered. With fingers digging into the juts of Chris hipbones, he sucks him, focused, eyes dark and sharp

Chris stumbles towards his orgasm, and Felix takes him deeper, feeling the pulsing flesh throb against his soft palate as he patiently waits for him. It doesn’t take long.

“I’m gonna come – _Felix –_ ”

He tries to jerk back, but he’s too late. Felix kind of doesn’t let go. Chris comes down his throat, and instantly fucking regrets it.

“ _God,_ _no_ – I told you I’m _coming –_ ”

He pulls out hastily, and Felix inhales when he can. And then he just sort of sits there, looking down at his hands in his lap, almost like he's also shocked that just happened, with a string of water and cum hanging from his lower lip. A chill seeps through Chris because he just can't fathom how they're suddenly here. 

Harrowing silence for two whole days and now...this. 

It makes his head spin, but he grabs Felix's slippery chest nonetheless once he's recovered, picks him up and steadies him when it feels like he’ll keel over. The deadpan look concerns him. Like he doesn’t want to focus, like he's floating around in the ether.

“You alright? I'm sorry, jesus...are you...is your throat okay? Knees? You look kinda zonked out...hey? Earth to Felix, come on.”

He worries. But gradually, there’s reassurances. There’s Felix and a pitchy _yeah_. There’s a tiny confirmation that he’s not dying. There’s Chris lathering shampoo into his hair, rinsing him off, one arm curled around his waist and the other around his chest. 

He wraps him in a towel burrito. Carries him into the bedroom, lays him across his lap and pulls him in and nuzzles into the swirls of damp hair.

"Felix, you're kinda worrying me.”

Felix’s nose is propped up against his chest, bruised knees poking out just below the towel.

"I'm sleepy..."

“Fuck, look at these…” Chris grunts in outrage, runs a finger over his kneecaps, observing the faintly burgeoning welts. “Why did you have to...baby. You cracked your knees open, does it hurt?"

“...'m fine...”

_"Man…"_

With a displeased sigh, Chris rocks him, just slightly. It doesn’t really help, and Felix drifts into oblivion fast.

“No, don't go to sleep yet, need you to communicate. Are you sure you're okay? Do you want to nap? Or just call it a night? Or eat?”

“Mm' yeah.” 

Chris snorts, half-amused and simultaneously mystified beyond belief.

"That’s...not helpful.”

Felix burrows further into him, droning hoarsely. “Just want to lay here in your arms.”

"Alright, okay. We can arrange that."

Within a few minutes, he’s fast asleep, tiny snores and tiny pools of drool wetting Chris’s t-shirt. Chris leaves him, just briefly, to rest against the pillows with the comforter thrown over him. 

He pads into the kitchen. It’s the first time he’s here. The interior is anonymous. Everything sits in its place, no unnecessary items or pictures or anything on display.

He doesn’t mean to snoop around, but he can’t help but open the fridge.

There’s barely anything. Just some leftover rice and kimchi. He closes it again, unease gnawing at him.

He realizes then. That he’s falling for Felix, hard, and yet he knows nothing about him. What he does know is just superficial. The realization scares him, because it’s been weeks and he’s still so fleeting. Like a ghost that comes and goes. 

One moment it feels like he has him, and the next he’s gone. Doesn’t even answer, and Chris fears those long hours when there’s just a big wall of nothing as he tries to contact him.

He crawls next to him again. Felix rouses, whimpering grumpily as Chris cocoons him and scoots as close as he possibly can.

“Just me, baby.”

“I'm tired...”

"I know. You should drink something though.”

There's burning Questions now, more than ever, but Felix doesn't provide much of anything. Chris hums one of his songs, chats about this and that, and orders Chinese takeaway when his gut starts grumbling in displeasure. All while Felix half-snoozes next to him, engaging only intermittently. When he does, the baritone has a subdued quality to it, like it’s filtered through cling film.

He watches Chris poke around the box with the chopsticks, and agrees to a few sips of bubble tea. But there's nothing but a fractured _no-o_ when Chris tries with the noodles. It's almost as if Felix has shut down, and there's nothing else to do than to wait until he unfolds.

At some point it's late. Felix curls into little spoon and Chris revels in his scent, gets lost in the ashy blonde forest of hair, whispers into it.

“Will you be here in the morning though?” 

He desperately needs him to. Needs to untangle this, all of it. If he’s ever allowed to. 

Felix’s voice reaches him from the other side, disjointed and laden with sleep.

"Chris...we're at my place.”

That's no guarantee for anything. But Chris settles for that, sneaks a hand underneath his t-shirt, letting it rest in the dip of his tummy. It rises, falls, rises, falls, rises, falls, and lulls into a slumber in due time. His arm stays curled around Felix all night.

Maybe just automatically. To anchor him right here, keep him from disappearing, wherever it is he goes, the place where Chris can't quite reach him, yet.


	4. charcoal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi
> 
> Been a while, I've been burdened by pesky real-life responsibilities. I expanded the chapter amount because I realized 6 isn't enough to wrap up this story so yeah
> 
> In any case, ty for reading ♡ take care

Just as the first shafts of low autumn sun highlight his cheekbones, and Felix slithers out of bed. 

Somehow he's only wearing his boxers. It's odd, because he never sleeps _this_ naked. He lowers his gaze, and is met by chunky kneecaps looking like a pair of rorschach ink blots. 

_What._

Chris lets out a drowsy, disappointed wheeze in his sleep, his hand fumbling over the Felix-less spot next to him. But as the notoriously heavy sleeper he is, he doesn't wake. Not to the creak of the floorboards, or to the closet door swinging open, or to Felix sneezing as he shimmies into an oversized t-shirt.

Seeing Chris in his bed — just so-and-so able to accommodate two — feels kind of strange. A sea of light gray fabrics surround him where he lays, perky butt propelled into the air and face buried deep in the pillow. Felix's bed is technically king size, but also unusually narrow, which means you have to sleep squished together if there's two of you.

It's not like he minds. Being squished and using Chris as a blanket is his new favorite thing.

 _But_ — 

Snippets of yesterday trickle in intermittently as he loiters in the doorway. The Unidentified Blues hit, too. His gut is suddenly a tank full of slippery eels, and his nose stings, like there's gravel stuck in it.

When he sniffs, he remembers. Oh yeah.

Remembers how he acted, remembers the dramatic transformation he underwent. From mousy wallflower to unhinged live wire, and then — he gagged on Chris's dick and bruised his knees — inhaled about a gallon of water through his nostrils — and blacked out to finish it all off. Amazing.

The Blue Feeling intensifies. Chris lets out a cute snore, and Felix wonders what he'll say when he wakes.

 _You're weird,_ is his best guess.

To avoid overthinking, he turns to Distractions, because there’s loads of them. Missed lectures, essays to write, things to learn. Organized things — statistics and facts with no room for interpretation — quickly imbue him with a sense of control.

It's only dawn when he settles the laptop on the kitchen table and starts tapping away. The hours pass, and he doesn't think too much, he just taps. Taps and entertains the idea of popping down to Starbucks, but it’ll have to be a no. 

His head thrums a dull beat and a sugary pumpkin spice-anything sounds like a godsend, but money is always tight this time of month. Most of it goes to rent, and the rest, well...just disappears into the ether, somehow.

Instead, three cups of sour, off-brand coffee wash down a handful of ibuprofen, and the tapping resumes.

He taps, taps and taps, and loads the coffee maker a fourth time, well — tries. Jittery-limbed as he is, he accidentally knocks the whole jar over. A shrill _NO!_ reaches all the way up to his neighbors, and ground coffee scatters all over the floor.

That's where Chris finds him a few moments later. He sees the laptop, Felix's favorite novelty grumpy cat-mug, and then Felix, crawling around on all fours in a sea of cheap semi-dark roast. 

"Fuck fuck _fuck_ — “

"What — Felix. What are you doing?"

 _"I spilled all the coffee_ —“

"Oh...that's okay, we'll just clean it up. Come on, get up."

That statement somehow flies over Felix's head. Chris hovers over him, busy with trying to fish him off the floor, but for some unknown reason, there's major resistance.

" _It's not okay!"_

"Why not?" Chris counters, stunned. "It's just coffee —“

"Yeah, but I opened the packet yesterday and I can't afford to buy a new—“

That's how far he gets before his jaw clamps shut. _What the hell,_ he didn't mean to be so outrageously candid, not to mention loud. Suddenly he doesn't know what’s going on, or why this fucking spilled coffee feels like a disaster of nebulous proportions.

Chris nibbles on his lower lip, trying hard to figure out the same thing.

"I'll buy you new coffee, jesus...just, get off the floor, we don't need your knees any more bruised."

Fingers wrap around Felix's chest, lift him — always like he weighs nothing — and Chris backhugs him, noses over his neck and sprinkles kisses down his jawline.

"I was worried you'd actually taken a hike when I woke and you weren't there. How many coffees have you had exactly? Have you just been sitting here studying all morning?"

No exact reply is given, but based on Felix's trembling hands, it's a yes to that one. Chris vacuums the floor swiftly, and decides breakfast is non-negotiable. But after a quick look, he concludes the cupboards are also depressingly barren.

"Going downstairs quickly, be right back."

A small, hopeful spark appears in Felix's eyes.

“Starbucks?”

“Uhuh.”

"Then could you get me a —“

"No. No more caffeine for you."

Felix can sulk all he wants. The only thing making their way up again are a couple of sandwiches and granola bars.

"But I'm _tired_ ," Felix complains. Chris tuts, watching him pull out a sad-looking, wilted piece of lettuce out of its bread prison, before reluctantly taking a bite.

"Yeah you're tired, cause you haven't left this place for days. Come on, it's Saturday. We can do something later."

Felix stays quiet while he chews, and thinks about what that might be. Maybe bowling, or movie, or...ten rounds of Uno. He smirks, remembering how he kicked Chris’s ass last time.

"So...are you okay now?" Chris takes care when asking, uses his softest mittens. "You know...yesterday was a little weird. I was just surprised...radio silence and then...well…"

 _Weird_. The bread turns soggy and expands in Felix’s mouth, all thoughts of leisurely Uno-games vacated. And Chris hesitates, but then it just pours out of him.

"Because…I was under the impression that you were just kinda...inexperienced, and wanted to take things slow when it comes to...sex...but...yeah. I just want us to talk, like _actually_ talk, if that’s okay. And I don't mean I didn't enjoy yesterday, I really, _really_ did, but…"

 _Sex._ SEX. S-E-X. What an abrasive word.

Chris keeps talking. Felix studies him intently, notices his ears reddening when he mentions — again — that he _loved_ it. He loved it, of course he loved it, who wouldn't love an enthusiastic blowjob.

So it happened. There's no going back. Felix has exited the safe realm of hair-brushing and shoulder massages. He's a ripe fruit, ready to be picked again, a Sexual Being, all parts functioning and ready for action. 

And Chris will expect more, he won't just settle.

One tear emerges, and then two, and three, running for their lives down sleep-swollen cheeks. Chris is stuck mid-sentence, but when he raises his chin and sees them, he's by his side in an instant.

"No, what's wrong? I didn't mean to upset you, jesus…"

He panics. Because this just keeps happening, it just keeps happening, and he can’t find the off-switch. 

"Felix?"

“It’s nothing, it's _nothing,_ sorry...I'm just tired _…_ "

"Okay, alright…but don't cry though, fuck..." 

Felix is near-inconsolable, a little bundle of raging emotion, but Chris just does what he always does. Hugs him, just right until he's snug and calm.

"Want to go lay down a while?"

He gets a glossy-eyed nod, and the subject is laid to rest.

But Felix's dick isn't. After a while of spooning, _he's_ the one with morning wood, and christ almighty — he's a whole unsolved riddle, isn't he. His body just does whatever the fuck it wants, but he ignores it, at first. He just sniffs pathetically, lays with an arm slung across his nose until it's carefully pried off.

"Felix, listen."

Chris rolls him over, bit by reluctant bit. 

"Yesterday didn't change anything. We can still take it slow and do whatever you want, or don't want. Understand?"

Maybe it's the sincerity of his voice, maybe it's the extra-deep dimple of the day when he smiles so alluringly. But it works, and Felix caves, doesn’t care about unbrushed teeth as he clambers all over him, desperately kissing every exposed part of him.

And Chris muses when Felix’s boner rubs over his tummy. Shushes him, with a finger to pouty lips, when he mutters a shy _sorry._

“Want me to take care of that?”

“ _Um._..maybe...if you want…”

He's flipped over easily, t-shirt dragged over his head, pillow shoved under it. Chris's voice flows in deep, deep rhythmic cadence all around him, titillating his senses. 

"Is this okay?"

It's more than okay again.

His elbows support him as he cranes his neck to see better, the bones in his knuckles tightening until they dislocate and honestly, it's almost embarrassing. Embarrassing — because he's soft, so soft and absolutely defenseless putty in Chris's hands, and scary — because he's hooked on his touch and his voice and it's bordering on addiction.

Chris towers next to him, comfortably seated, but Felix doesn't even remember to feel self-conscious even though he’s fully sprawled out. He’s told he’s pretty and precious, over and over, but he feels useless, can't do anything but whimper brokenly since that's apparently another thing he does now.

Strong arms, strong hands slide up and down his thighs, full lips working wonders on him. Chris’s sharp eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth whispers over pulsing flesh and he’s smiling through it all — and Felix comes, quickly and easily. 

Chris lets him go with a plop, wipes strings of drool from his lips, satisfied. Double _wow._ Felix knows he could never be that self-assured if the roles were reversed, never ever, not in the bright light of day like this. 

Well, maybe Not-Felix could. But not Real-Felix.

“Good?”

“Good,” Felix reckons, and Chris kisses him, cheekily letting him taste himself. 

Felix returns the favor afterwards, but it’s just not good. He hides behind his hair-curtain, fingers sliding hesitantly up and down, up and down until Chris comes into his fist with a groan. Felix might have cried again if he didn’t — but he does. And then he scoops him into his arms, and tells him that it was the best handy _ever._

That sounds like a pretty disgusting lie, but okay.

"You know what day it is today?" 

Chris lays on his side, hair charmingly mussed and a mischievous glimmer in his eyes as he watches Felix ruminate.

It’s...Saturday...Saturday and...October? 

_3rd._

"Oh shit," he realizes, after some computing. "Your birthday?"

Chris grins and pulls him in again, slings a leg over his butt, and weeps. He’s _twenty-three,_ so _old_ , _nearly thirty_. Felix agrees, it’s so, so terrible, but during a brief, unguarded moment, he manages to escape.

When he comes back, a small, gift-wrapped box is carefully deposited in Chris’s lap.

"What — you got me a gift?"

Felix nods breathlessly. A few minutes later, the bed is covered with wrapping paper and Chris holds up a brand new, _red_ microphone, awestruck. It’s shiny and so nice and he can’t believe Felix actually _remembered,_ because it was ages that he complained about his old one being ready to give up.

"Wow, Felix...thank you…just wow, baby. I love it.”

His whole face sparkles, but a tiny wrinkle appears to disrupt it.

"Wait a minute. When's your birthday again? Did you ever even tell me?"

The mumbled answer makes him nearly pop a vein. _Ten whole days ago, it was ten whole days ago?!_

"And you didn't tell me?! Or did you tell me? What did you do, then? Did I see you that day?"

Felix remains cross-legged and tries to recall it. Honestly, nothing much. He skyped his family back in Australia, took a nap. Yeah. _Too bad you couldn't make it home,_ his mom had said, disappointed. But Felix just shrugged indifferently. It's the middle of the semester, he’d fall behind.

Besides, birthdays are just days. And last year’s birthday sucked major ass and left him a distraught mess, so maybe he played it down, subconsciously.

But Chris isn’t pleased at all.

"I'm really upset with you for not telling me," he next-to-growls. "You know what I have to do. Punish you severely for this."

For a fraction of a second, Felix is thrown off. He begins to stammer, _please, I'm really sorry_ — but it's interrupted by a squeal. Chris pins him down and tickles him until he ugly-wails and begs for forgiveness, which he’s begrudgingly granted.

"God damn it, you're twenty. Your teen years are officially over. We're going somewhere today, to celebrate both of us, non-negotiable."

It's not like he even has to add that, since everything seems to be non-negotiable by default. But this time Felix is game. Chris drives them to the beach, and buys him anything he wants at a seaside café — pumpkin spice latte, a box of mochis and a whole cake. And that's cozy, but the aftermath is even cozier, in a sort of disgustingly heart-shaped way. 

There's a candle lit dinner, courtesy of Chris. And hand-holding over the table and adoring looks and wine-sipping and every cliché under the sun. But it’s so good, it’s so right. 

Later, while a candle crackles and pops in the background, Felix folds under him again, submits to magnetic hands and pillowy lips. But all promises are kept and nothing moves too fast, nothing chafes or hurts. Everything happens in slow motion, like a romantic movie played at half speed just like Felix likes it. 

Chris hums. Close to his ear, always close but never close enough. If Felix could rip his skin open and disappear into him, make a little nest for himself, he would. He would because suddenly home isn't his shoebox of an apartment anymore, suddenly it has a heartbeat.

"I think I super-like you, Lee Felix."

"I think I super-like you too," Felix admits. And blushes, but no one can see. It's too dark.

And the candle flickers one last time, rustling with one last breath just as he's kissed again, always like that first time.

* * *

The trees are all bare, the sky perpetually gray, and November arrives with freezing rain.

Felix remains reserved, a closed book, but Chris coaxes, pushes, and pulls, and learns something new every day. The things he learns he stores in his Felix Info Bank, keeps them safe and treats them like rare treasures.

He knows the following:  
  
1\. Felix may or may not have a very rich singing voice.  
  
2\. Felix is skilled at Uno, and also really endearingly noisy and dramatic while playing it.  
  
3\. Felix's mind is a labyrinth of sharply winding roads and Chris constantly backs into dead ends and it's so tricky, but he doesn't give up, ever.

He takes it day by day, pretty much aware of how to handle him now. Always with care.

A week passes. Felix’s hair grows, because he doesn’t want to cut it when it helps keep his neck so warm. But Chris’s hair undergoes impromptu changes. When it’s done, it’s choppy and a screaming shade of red that nearly blinds everyone around him.

Felix loves it. 

It gets darker earlier and he loves that too. Loves the comfort it brings, but it turns his face pallid, washes his freckles out. It’s windy, and it gets even windier when Chris insists they climb onto a fucking _roof_ during one of their afternoon walks.

“Are you insane?”

“Just trust me. I won’t let you fall, I've got you.”

Shit, well, okay. Felix struggles up the ladder in his padded winter coat, but he makes it with Chris’s helping hand on his butt, nudging him forward. And it turns out to be worth it, because the entire city is visible from up here and the air insanely crisp, all traces of fine dust erased.

“This was my favorite place to come as a kid,” Chris informs him when they stand close to the ledge, like Jack and Rose on the Titanic. And Felix isn’t even scared even though he's kinda scared of heights, thanks to the arms safely anchoring him the whole time.

“You climbed up here as a kid?

“Yup.”

“Wow. Daredevil.”

“I know. Did you like growing up in Australia?”

The rapid subject changes always hit Felix out of the blue. Chris is sly, choosing unforeseen moments to ask him personal questions, but this time he doesn’t mind answering.

“Yeah...I guess. But I didn’t really like the sun that much.”

“Weirdo,” Chris offers, and hugs him tighter.

Yeah. Weirdo. And it’s paradoxical, because the lack of sky cretin consumes him into a frenzy of shivers and he hates the cold.

He wraps himself in sweaters, beanies, thick scarves, anything and everything he can find. He wears woolly socks inside chunky Doc Martens, triple boxers and so many layers that he can barely move. His skeleton feels like its made of frozen metal, the wind throws him around like a ragdoll as he walks to and from uni. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, endlessly. 

"You're always freezing, huh," Chris comments after a particularly nasty rainstorm shakes the city. He feels sorry for the boy on his couch, his hands hidden in sweater paws, nose a little sniffly and red.

"Eh, I'm okay," Felix assures, and helps himself to the fluffy blanket purchased especially with him in mind.

"Uhuh. Thankfully you got me to warm you all winter. But you need to remember to eat and stuff. Are you taking any vitamins?”

"Chris…"

"Yeah but seriously, it's important."

Chris has entered his Mother Hen phase. And he takes it damn seriously. One part of Felix is annoyed, while another is thriving, because someone is taking care of him and it makes him all warm and fuzzy. So he allows it, just pretending to put up a fight — just a tiny one, just for the heck of it.

* * *

One late November evening, Chris very casually-and nonchalantly asks if Felix wants to go hang out. And yeah, it’s also very blatantly calculated, because Felix is chipper today.

Still, he looks slightly horrified when he opens his mouth to clarify. "Like...with other people?" 

Yeah. With Chris’s _friends._ His dance crew.

A tiny flesh eating plant makes its home in his gut. So they've reached that stage now, the stage where _friends_ and maybe even _parents_ and... _other people._..are introduced. Chris stresses the fact that it's okay if he doesn't want to, like, _parrots_ it until Felix has to tell him to shut up. But nevertheless he squeaks, _yes, fine,_ and only changes pants about five times until he settles for the safest bet which is always black skinny jeans.

"You look great, and they're honestly so nice, there's nothing to worry about,” Chris calms him as they crusade towards the pub. “They'll love you."

They are. They're like, _so_ welcoming, all of them taking turns to greet him. Felix’s shoulder remains in the protective embrace of Chris’s arm, but he still squirms, still worries he’ll spill his drink all over his chin when he sips it. But when he doesn’t and no bombs go off, he relaxes.

Just a bit.

The tall and stable individual with perfect teeth is there, too — Hyunjin, the friend he spotted opposite Chris at Starbucks a while back. Felix only gives him a few seconds worth of Evil Eye, and thank goodness for that, because he’s _so nice._ So nice, and the kind of rare person who asks questions like, _so what do you study?_ and says, _oh wow, really, that seems cool._ And not even in the artificially polite way, nah, in the genuinely-interested-way, like he really wants to know and not just exchange shallow pleasantries.

Unheard of.

But in any case it’s okay and Felix curiously peeks out of his protective shell, squints at the world with wide eyes. A few more beers slip down, but he's only moderately tipsy, just a little. But it helps him gather enough courage to tell a joke. 

And lo and behold, everyone _laughs._

And it’s not even the strained, forced kind, but actual rough _spurts_ of it, the kind that twists people's faces and makes them almost cry and cough and choke on their beverages.

Chris beams like a proud mother, of course.

"You're the best, and mine," he announces. And kisses Felix in front of everyone. 

Maybe even a little too greedily, (not like Felix minds, really) until he’s hounded up on stage, by his friends, because it’s karaoke night. He fake-resists, but Felix knows it's all an act because Chris is the most charismatic person he knows, and he never turns out an opportunity to strut around and show off.

He watches him pull off a cheesy ballad effortlessly, all tingly and toasty because that's his...almost-boyfriend...right there. When the last note dies out, his applauds sound the loudest.

"Maybe you want to sing too, baby? I just have this feeling you have a great voice, all dark and husky, I just know it," Chris teases, and receives instant backing from his friends. Felix hisses, _hell no,_ digs heels into the sticky floor. Chris tugs at his sleeve in an attempt to persuade him — but then his attention turns elsewhere. He raises a hand, wide smile widening even further as he waves.

Felix follows his gaze to the other side of the pub.

And suffocates.

The pint of beer nearly slips his hands, and the shock evaporates all traces of alcohol from his system. Time freezes, and people stay rooted to the spot.

Suddenly sweating in his double sweatshirts, Felix closes the distance between him and the individual on the other side, dodging chairs and tables and unmoving bodies. He circles him multiple times, analyzes every corner, whips out a tape measure to check shoulder-width, hair-length, jawline-angle.

Same deeply set eyes, dark hair styled to perfection down to the last cuticle. Same old rich boy aura and high-end silk shirt. He could be anyone, anyone really, and yet he isn’t.

His expression is stale wax, a half-smile on its way upward, palm around chin-level. And time is still frozen, except it isn't.

Because that only happens in movies and this isn't one. What actually happens is that Felix watches the pair of them exchange a cordial wave, and then it’s over. Chris pulls him closer again because he’s so damn touchy feely when he's drunk, and Felix lets himself get pulled in, finishes his beer in one gulp.

"Do you know that guy?"

It's shaky, but Chris is a little too far gone to notice.

"Oh, nah not too well. He goes to my uni, we’ve hung out a couple times. Why?"

"No reason.”

They leave within ten minutes after that because Felix gets acute nausea. The short walk home feels like getting dunked in an ice bath and when they arrive, his fingers remain stiff, stiff icicles, no matter how long and hard Chris rubs them.

And like that, it happens. The past wraps itself around him, covers his organs, his heart, his whole being in a paralyzing layer of frost.

* * *

It happens again. The line goes dead. Chris’s messages and calls are ignored but this time he doesn’t just wait while Felix's brain concocts a shitload of god knows what, fuck no. This time he does two things:

1\. Grabs a pile of food.

2\. Stops by uninvited because as much as he respects the guy, he won’t just passively sit by and let whatever is happening happen.

Work is a drag but once it’s finally over he races all the way to Felix’s block of flats. He's prepared for long-winded doorbell ringing and to possibly have to beg and maybe even yell at him to come to the door, but the opposite happens. For some insane reason, it’s unlocked when he tries the handle. 

This just makes his worry peak, as if it hadn’t already.

An eerie ghost town awaits him inside, and in the very depths of it, a bed that might as well be a coffin. Inside it, a decaying collection of spindly limbs and frail bones lay in disheveled sheets. 

The promise Felix made comes to mind. _I won't ghost you again_. But he’s the ghost, the air around him static and fit only for the undead.

Chris scoots closer, clenches fingers around his shoulder to roll him over, and sighs when he sees the tear tracks and tufts of unkempt hair.

"Felix? Hey...wake up, baby."

"Chris —"

"Yeah, it's me. What's going on, why have you been crying?

 _"I don't know,"_ Felix keens, voice hoarse and unused. This time he really doesn't, because his brain is sawdust and in need of a reboot, which it gets.

Chris hoists him up, carries him off without a word. Helps him shower, leads him into the kitchen, watches him mechanically spoon rice and beans into his mouth after it's heated up for him. But it’s a slow and tedious process, and Felix complains about nausea and headaches.

"Come on, I need you to eat," Chris sighs, pushing the bowl towards him again after he's shoved it away with a grimace. "You have a headache because you've just been laying in bed for days. When was the last time you drank, ate, showered?"

"I don't remember."

After Chris gives him the evil eye, he opens obediently until the bowl is empty and drinks a tall glass of water, sits obediently at the edge of the bed as he's dressed in a fresh t-shirt and a thick knitted sweater. Chris doesn't talk, except to occasionally tell him to _lift_ and _turn around_ and Felix just accepts it, for now.

One hour later he idles on the tattered couch, feeling like a half-drowned cat, hair still shower-damp, eyes shriveled into raisins. In front of him, Chris paces the rug, gestures broadly, mutters things to himself.

“The door was unlocked, you know.”

Felix considers this. So he’s getting early onset dementia now, too, yikes.

"You did it again," Chris starts as he comes to a stop before him. "I haven't heard from you and I’ve sent you like five hundred messages.”

Felix shrinks tenfold then. This current arrangement isn't great, because he's looking at Chris from a frog's eye view and despite the tranquil expression, there's a colossal ball of fear growing inside him.

"I'm...yeah...yeah. I did." 

"What have you been _doing_? It's past 5pm on a Monday and I found you in bed, Lix."

"I don't know, I don't remember, I...my brain is so messy, I don't _know_..."

He disappears into the opening of his shirt. Chris's voice filters through the fabric, coated with grave urgency.

"Do you have access to university healthcare? Because if you don't want to talk to me...maybe there's someone else, a counselor, you could go talk to?"

"I don't need to talk to anyone —“

"Listen, Lixie...sorry to be blunt, but I really think you do. I think you need some help with this."

Chris sinks down next to him, digs him out from his den. Felix stares at the wall, feels a hand creep into his, squeezing oh-so-tenderly. Maybe to cushion the blow of what he's about to say.

Maybe present ultimatums.

 _Get your shit together_. Become a Normal Citizen because it's what Chris deserves. Cute, chatty, sociable, presentable, loving, needy, always ready for him, _I mean god can you stop acting like such an insecure little child_ — 

Meanwhile, Chris chunters on.

"...you know, whatever is up with you...some heavy secret you’re carrying around, stress with assignments or...seasonal depression, I don’t know...but this just isn’t normal anymore.”

The air is punched out of Felix, which only adds to the abject mortification of this moment.

"I know I'm not normal.”

"No," Chris interjects instantly, "wait, wait, that's not what I meant, that's the wrong word to use. Don't get any funny ideas again, I don't mean you're not normal, but this...whatever is going on...isn't healthy, and I'm worried about you."

The atmosphere in Felix's apartment is always stuffy. Maybe it’s because he turns the heaters up too high, Chris isn't sure, but now it kind of makes him sweat buckets. He pulls on his shirt collar as he waits for any sign of life. Movement, noise, anything.

“Felix?”

He nudges closer. And doesn't fail to notice how Felix fucking _flinches_. A barely-there micro flinch, but still.

"Whoa. Relax, baby. It's okay."

Felix’s hand snaps, wanting to withdraw, but Chris stubbornly holds on.

“Can we...talk? Like really talk. No frills, no weird ass zoning out, just tell me what you really feel and think. Tell me why you’ve been ignoring me and what you’ve been doing and how we can fix this. For once, and don’t argue about it, please."

Smoke builds in Felix's lungs. The heat burns him, Chris’s touch burns him, his eyes burn as he glares holes into the wallpaper.

He knows what's happening, it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy he can’t stop. The demands bring the knot of tension back, makes Sensible-Felix perk up. When the discussion remains tenaciously one-sided, Chris just continues, grating out isolated words that travel in and out of Felix’s ears.

"...this isn’t working, okay…"

No. No. Stop. Alarm bells go off, _code red,_ stop, back off, too close, too damn close.

"...it's like...the third time this happens, out of nowhere…"

Danger, danger, danger, abort, abort, abort, diversion tactic _asap._

"...and I really need you to talk to me, like fucking _now,_ or else — “

 _Launch_.

"Or else what?”

Felix turns to look at him finally. His skin pales until it’s taut porcelain, his voice thinning until it’s diluted beyond recognition.

"Or else you're done with me? Let's just end it now in that case.”

The tension that follows stings. Picks, at Chris’s stiffened cheeks, like relentless needles.

“...what?"

“It’s not working. You said so. So go ahead and fuck off, I don’t need you here.”

Felix's eyes don't leave the floor. He doesn't need to see Chris’s frown lines deepening, doesn’t need to see his face blooming with imaginary bruises. He only hears, a lowered, wounded voice (and he's the culprit).

"That's not what I said —“

"You did."

"No, what the _fuck_ , can you let me finish? That’s not what I _said,_ I said _this_ — what you’re doing isn’t working for _you_ , and you need help with —“

"I don't need anything from you," Felix cuts him off, so uncharacteristically indifferent that it sounds laughable.

"Don't need anything from me?"

"No."

Chris nearly rips all his hair out, resists the urge to jump off the balcony. Once his voice is level, he tries again.

"Baby, I don't know why you're acting like this, but if you'll just let me help we can —"

“Are you deaf?! _I said fucking leave!”_

The jarring shriek renders him numb. There’s no follow up, so he just snorts and laughs, bitterly, and gives up, finally. Real-Felix pounds on Felix's ribcage from within, orders him repeatedly to _stop_ , stop, _make it stop,_ fucking _do_ something, but he doesn't, he does nothing.

“So it's gonna be like this, huh...alright. Alright, okay. If this is what you want, sure, I'll leave. No use to staying here to try to talk to someone who just refuses to listen. I’ll leave. But you've got issues, you know." 

The last part hits like bullets, rips Felix’s face open to reveal the cracked shards underneath. But Chris doesn’t see it, because he’s already gone. The silence echoes, and Felix remains on the couch, emptied.

_Good job. Good job, good job, good job, good fucking job._

Sensible-Felix gently interferes. _If I may be so brash to suggest, it's better this way._ Think of Scenarios 1,2,3,4,5 to 194. It's okay, time will heal all scars, it's okay because it's nothing in comparison to Plot Twists.

Okay. So what now then, Felix asks. What now? _Well, duh,_ now you're safe, nothing bad can happen.

He sits in the same spot. But it doesn't feel as good as it should, not as cathartic, and the confines of his self-determined safe haven shatter. It feels like dry charcoal in his mouth, spiky thorns sprouting from within and stabbing his organs. As the cloud of anxiety rolls in, his skin becomes his canvas, nails finding his elbow and assaulting the crusty scab furiously.

Meanwhile, Chris skips multiple steps as he makes his descent. He almost-sobs, he’s really close, and he definitely curses Felix's name to the deepest pits of hell. That _fucking_ kid. He doesn’t have the energy for this, not even he with his unfaltering patience. The eight-hour shift at the restaurant drained him, he needs a nap and Felix is acting like a thousand piece puzzle with like half of the bits missing, so how the fuck is he supposed to ever make sense of it.

He reaches the bottom floor, completely set on leaving. The door is half open, but he pauses — lets it slide shut, rests fingers on the handle.

The target of his infatuation is an unpredictable wild card, simultaneously the most enticing and most complicated person he’s ever met. He’s also falling in love with him, it’s official, and also pretty gross because he has absolutely no say in the matter. 

In hindsight, maybe he should have seen this coming. Sometimes unread messages do mean _fuck off,_ not to mention Felix nearly made the walls combust by _screaming_ at him to fuck off.

Any sane person would leave.

But no. The little wires in his brain twist, end to end, every single cogwheel in full grind until it hurts. 

It takes about ten minutes, but his fingers slip off the handle, sneakers trot up the stairs. The door is still unlocked. He’s back, in the same spot in the nondescript room, watching Felix’s expression show utter shock concealed as neutrality.

"Are you lost? Door is that way.”

"Yeah. I'm aware.”

Chris’s attempt to sit down and loop arms around him is unsuccessful. He slinks away, to the very edge of the couch, huddles in the corner like he wants it to swallow him whole.

He croaks, _I want you to leave,_ but it's not at all convincing. Rejection — no matter if real or pretend — stabs at Chris like pitchforks but he soldiers on anyway. One, two, three, _breathe_ — and counter attack.

“You know it's always your choice, what you do. But right now you don't get to decide, and I’m staying here.”

Felix stares at the floor, at the oriental-inspired rug that doesn’t fit in here at all, at Chris’s white sneakers, stained with mud and in need of a wash. He can't look him in the eyes again, maybe ever again. A lone tear makes its descent, quickly wiped off. He consults Sensible-Felix for advice, but there’s nothing. This isn’t supposed to happen.

Chris presses further. “What are you thinking right now?”

"Don’t get what you’re still doing here.”

Felix’s head shakes, Chris’s shoulders shrug.

"I like it here. I'm fine right here."

"That doesn't make any fucking sense."

"Makes sense to me."

Felix cries bloody murder, but the ruptured baritone doesn’t carry anymore. He repeats it three times, _doesn't make any sense,_ until it betrays him for good and he sounds like a broken squeaky toy, hacking and stuttering into his palms.

His bangs disrupt his line of sight but he hears Chris get down on his haunches, sees him as his hands are forced down.

“Shhh, stop, stop. Look at me.”

Felix falters for a moment, stomach clenching. Chris looks up at him, smiles kinda sadly, like the whole world is weighing him down.

“You don't want me to leave. You're fucking terrified I'll leave.” 

The words linger. For a while, and then Felix is blinded by tears — ugly, ugly fat ones, hanging from thick, thick lashes. He folds in on himself, cries into his knees, full-on-sobs because that’s all he ever does.

The trio of Felixes are useless, they just watch him cry and fall apart and why aren’t they helping him? He doesn’t know what to _do_ anymore, he’s a cube with infinite amount of sides and he can't control which one is showing — but there’s maneuvering, one hand around his shoulder blades and one under his thighs and then Chris’s shirt presses against his cheekbone. He smells like dish soap and frying pan grease but also like himself and somehow he's there and Felix just clings to him, rigid body going limp with a whine.

" _I'm sorry_ —”

"I know. I know, it’s okay."

Blankets of reassurances rumble in waves, encasing him. The sky scurries through several shades of dark outside, while all that exits Felix’s mouth is raw sandpaper and wet, wet balls of liquid regret. 

He cries until he’s not crying anymore, until he’s just trying to catch his breath, until the ocean-rush sound of Chris’s breathing loosens the stone-cold fingers wrapped around his lungs. And Chris kisses him until his bottom lip swells, holds the boy, until dusk turns to dawn and until his arms-acting-as-pillows go absolutely numb and start throbbing — but it’s okay. It’s okay, because he doesn’t care about that, he’ll never care about that.


	5. vantablack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello
> 
> Been a hot, fat minute since I updated this. I had drafted and almost finished this chapter, but it didn't feel right. So I re-drafted it, reshuffled it  
> a bunch of times, and still didn't feel right. So i've just let it simmer and live its own life for a while. But now,  
> something I'm semi-okay with has yeeted itself into existence at last. 
> 
> Anyway boring ramblings. Thanks for reading ♡

After several nights spent apart, Chris's embrace is both a blessing and a curse. It reminds Felix of what he has, and what he might lose.

He's told that it's _okay_ , that he didn't mess it all up, because Chris came back and Felix is forgiven and everything is _fine_ , or at least it will be, he parrots it just like that first time. But Felix can't believe it. He still sobs, trembles and mauls his feverish skin with his nails, and the apologies stack up to piles reaching the sky. Until it’s pitch black and he's on the verge of hyperventilating or busting a lung and Chris worries and wonders if they might need to go to the hospital — but eventually, he just tires himself out. He drifts off in Chris's arms, dead to the world, and that's the end of that shitshow.

But around five AM the same night, he wakes to undiluted, crushing remorse.

He asks himself what the fuck he's _doing,_ and finds no answers. Well, he finds multiple, but he has no way of even beginning to untangle himself. Instead, outrageous ideas present themselves. Like cracking open a bottle of soju and just sink. Escape all this, the knowledge that he's _this_ close to just getting what he wants and simultaneously dreads. 

Solitude.

Chris snoozes peacefully. Felix pushes his face into the pillow, filters his cries through linen, and forces himself into restless dreams.

When he blinks awake again, the room bathes in that sharp unwelcoming light again, and nothing is better. Actually it’s worse. An apocalyptic, gradually amplifying pounding starts somewhere around his temples, propelling him out of bed. It doesn't disappear completely, it never does. Painkillers numb the ache, covers it in bubble-wrap so it’s less noticeable, but it's still there — just like other things. 

Things that are _constantly_ there, festering away and never truly forgotten.

In the living room, fractured rays of morning sun seek to penetrate the blackout curtains. An empty box of tissues and the flattened cushions are the only signs of anything odd taking place recently, and last night is just flickers. Felix's own, venomous voice is stored in the walls, though, as a perfect recording of everything he said.

 _Leave, leave, leave, don’t need you._ He wants to rewind, it hurts too much. But he just scurries past, before the flashbacks can pull him into a bottomless pit again and open the floodgates. 

He plants bare feet on the linoleum floor, finds the ibuprofen, rips the fridge open. A half-drunken can of pepsi lingers on the shelf in the very back, flat, but it’ll have to do. But before he can reach for it, there’s a warm presence behind him, familiar fingers ghosting over his neck.

Chris. Him and his sleep-tousled, flaming red hair poking east and west.

"Easy. Just me."

" _Fuck,_ you scared me _..."_

"What are you doing?"

"I'm just...I was, uh..."

Felix looks at the two pills in his palm, but doesn't have time to do anything. Insistent fingers pry his fist open when it goes rigid in protest.

"No. You're not taking these on an empty stomach."

"I have a headache and I'm not _hungry_ —”

"I really don't care."

The rest turns into a muffled gibberish because Chris just pulls him in and doesn’t give a crap. Felix reluctantly hooks arms around him, lets him nuzzle into his neck. Feels him shift, taut muscles moving under his fingers. And gets a little drunk off that smell of morning-Chris.

"Don't even try," comes the warning when he's is about to complain about being shepherded towards the table. "You're eating, and then we're talking."

He might as well have said; _you'll have_ _your_ _last meal and then face the guillotine_. But Felix zips it. It's not like he has a right to argue anyway, not after last night. Not when Chris is still here and hugging him and putting up with him for some unfathomable reason. 

"Wait," he realizes, brows creasing. "Wait, it's Tuesday and...you're not at work? And I had class this morning and I didn't —”

But while he’s babbling and rubbing gobs of sleep out of his eyes, Chris takes the opportunity to just gently shove him down.

"Hush. It's alright, I took the day off. And you were in no condition to go to class, you were up all night crying and freaking out. Here."

Soon Felix is robotically breaking off piece after piece of a sour-tasting tangerine. It enters his mouth, washed down by the one tiny Americano he's allowed. Meanwhile, Chris has his mind set on getting to the bottom of this. All the worrying signs piling up; the recurring cycles of unresponsiveness, the irate behavior.

He’s pretty sure by now that Felix harbors some emotional trauma he needs to hash out, and fast. Well, based on yesterday, he’d have to be blind and deaf not to realize, and thankfully he isn’t. Thankfully he’s intelligent enough to read between the lines and the cotton gloves slip on, holding Felix so carefully he just barely grazes him.

But first he plays health educator. Between the casual sips of coffee he stresses the importance of vitamin D, proper diet and quality sleep, especially during winter months. It would alleviate Felix’s headaches, he's sure of it — and he doesn’t mean to sound _accusatory_ or anything, but what exactly did he expect if all he does is sleep and cry?

Yeah.

What.

Soon there’s a strain on Felix’s neck and shoulders because he’s sitting lopsidedly with his head nearly resting on the table, ripping the tangerine peel into smaller and smaller bits and occasionally providing a nod and a hum. Outside looks crisp and picture perfect. What will they do today? What can they do today? He'll have to explain himself soon and he can’t. He’ll have to figure out how to word it, talk about the face crossed out by an X in his mind. About the shock of seeing him at the pub and all of it. And he _can’t._

A snap of fingers pulls him from his reverie. 

"Are you listening?"

"I'm...yeah. Listening. Yep."

No he’s not. Chris pokes a little, cautiously. Chooses every single word with the utmost care, because he’s already understood by now there’s certain ones that set Felix off.

"What's the reason for these fluctuations in mood? Are you feeling down, burnt out? A lot of people are this time of year, you know.”

"Honestly...I'm not sure." 

When he sees Chris prepare for a counter strike, he quickly changes his mind. Notices an easy way out. "Or...maybe. I mean, yeah, I'm just tired and stressed and my brain is...messy.” 

There's nothing _'just'_ about yesterday. But Chris lets it go for now.

"You should get in touch with your university counselor next week. I'd love to be the one you confide in, but...I know it’s hard to talk about some things, so... maybe someone anonymous would be easier. I'll help you with this, okay. But you can’t keep falling into these funks, they’re really worrying.”

Felix nods meekly, because what else can he do. Chris drags him into the shower, washes away some of the tension with warm tendrils of water and renewed floods of reassurances. But no matter if real or imagined, Felix can detect it. Things have changed, and he breaks again. Chris promises him that he’s not ruined anything, but he's heard that before.

Back in the bedroom, his fears play him like a pinball. The closet opens while he just stands there, naked and exposed, nails scratching down his forearms. He’s interrupted, told for the millionth time to _not do that._ T-shirt and sweatpants are chosen for him — soft, so soft, no itchy seams.

But he’s still scared half to death. And that’s why he dives down again, burrows into the pillow, and Chris has to dig him out.

"Chris —"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really sorry about everything I said to you, I didn't mean it, please? I was scared and it makes me act like an ass and I don't know why _—"_

Chris's cuts off his rambling before it can turn into a panic attack, gently placating him with more streams of reassurances. It takes convincing, but he lets himself be pulled into sitting with a whine, and hugged close until he's settled.

“I already forgave you, Lix. Listen. I know you just want to keep everything inside, but you can’t. Not forever, it'll kill you.”

Felix nods reluctantly. Then he watches as Chris shuts the blinds, and makes a thing out of rummaging around and organizing the bedsheets around them. When he’s done, they're sitting inside a little nest.

"These walls protect us." He pats them, and inches closer. "This is the ask anything-chat. No one judges you here, don't have to worry," he explains. "There's no wrong answers, no one but me here, and you know me, I know you. Well, a bit at least. We know each other. Right?"

The ask anything-chat sounds terrifying. But Felix forces himself to be brave, for once.

"Yeah. I know you."

"Good. So can I ask you something? One question? And you'll answer honestly?”

"N...ugh. Yes."

"What happened yesterday? What are you scared of?"

Warm fingers thread into his, and somehow, Felix says it. Exactly what he's thinking.

"Everything.”

He peers up briefly, and instantly looks down. There was definitely a curious upward tilt of eyebrows, and no, it doesn’t make sense. But it’s the truth, mostly.

"Everything? Everything in the whole world?"

Felix snorts dryly. "Almost."

And at first, he almost spills it to Chris. The life-is-a-movie-theory, that everything is just predetermined and full of looming Plot Twists. But he halts himself, because he can’t afford to come off any more eccentric than he already is.

“I feel...like..."

He looks down again, plays with Chris’s fingers. Thick fingers, veins streamlining over faintly tanned arms. They play back, letting him know it's okay to continue.

"...I analyze things too much. Things...and people. And I don't know how to act around them, cause...everyone else is so well put together. You're like the most stable and mature person I know, you've got everything figured out, and I’m...me. I'm worried you'll realize what I'm really like.”

Before Chris can ask what he’s really like, Felix beats him to it. And it comes out too fast as usual, too abrasive just like every time he berates himself.

“That I'm too sensitive. Too much work, too weird and whiny and clingy and...insecure."

Saying this out loud hurts. He searches Chris's face for any clues suggesting he agrees, but there's nothing. Just thin lines around his mouth tightening further. Felix is so wrong, but with a squeeze of his hand, he encourages him to go on. 

"Uh...I’m scared that you might get tired of me,” he ends it lamely. “And I'm just walking around waiting for that moment."

Chris nods. Makes sense, and at the same time it doesn't make sense at all.

"So you'd rather just...be alone? Just because there's a risk things might end?"

Felix shrugs in affirmation. His forehead tickles, long bangs brushed out of his eyes by Chris. 

"That makes for a pretty depressing existence, you know."

"I know."

"What caused this pattern of thinking?"

Felix squirms, muttering something about one question only, and Chris instantly backs off. He has to, or else there'll be no more candid moments like these.

"Okay...okay. But Felix. Firstly I don't have everything figured out, and you don't have to feel...inferior, or whatever it is you're getting at here. You're not weird. Or too much work, what does that even mean?"

He doesn't understand it. Some of the things Felix says are like morse code to him, and he wants nothing more than to decode them. Yesterday a new fear presented itself, a realization that he doesn’t have him figured out like he thought, not even close. But he tries his utmost, with thumbs rubbing over his smooth cheekbones, to build him up.

"Listen. You're...special, in a good way. Funny, caring, a little bit cynical...even though I know you’re a positive person underneath that hard shell. Sensitive, yeah. But there's nothing wrong with being sensitive."

Felix shies away, wants to hide. Because the analysis is kinda spot on, but Chris catches his chin, maintaining his presence in the little bubble of comfort they’ve created.

"No one can predict the future, you know. Life is like that, things happen, sometimes they end. But if you don't risk it you won't experience anything good."

"Yeah, but I can't help but worry," Felix grumbles, pouting. It's like etched into his DNA; to worry. It's all he does.

"You can focus on now," Chris suggests, as if it's that easy. "Don't focus so much on what might happen, you can't control the future. And I don't know how I'll make you understand...that I'm not going anywhere. Nowhere. I want to be here with you."

Arms loop around his back, haul him in easily, so close that their noses touch and they eskimo-kiss. And then Felix is flooded with warmth, revels in the sweet notes of Chris’s voice.

"Nothing matters but right now. Why care about tomorrow when you have now?”

Now. Now is good, but tomorrow is too _soon_ , that’s the thing. Tomorrow will always come, bringing with it a frightening, unpredictable future. But Chris is persuasive. Felix can’t resist dark eyes, that extra prominently dimpled cheek, or what comes next.

“Now I want to be your boyfriend. I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart gallops, and the entire congregation of butterflies burst out of their cage, fluttering wildly. 

Because who's he to say no to _this._ No one. 

* * *

The world is at rest.

Christmas beckons them. Felix doesn't understand what all the fuss is about, but Chris is beyond excited. He's even taken a month off work at the restaurant, overtime he's diligently racked up throughout the year, and Felix's semester is about to end. 

He wants to remain an eternal grump, but he finds himself affected by the holiday cheer, too. It’s hard not to be when Chris’s eyes glimmer like a pair of tealights when he talks, about gingerbread houses and spiked mulled wine and all the time they can spend together.

A period of Calm reigns. Sensible-Felix has reluctantly returned to temporary hibernation, and a frosty Friday morning in December, Felix finds himself face to face with the apple-cheeked university counselor.

It's almost painfully awkward and too early for this. After taking a seat he slides his woolly beanie off, revealing the now near shoulder-length, bleached tangles of hair. His roots have darkened from months of neglect, and his insides are liquified goop. Because he doesn’t want to be here, not really.

Unless Chris showered him with encouraging words _(you can do it, just tell her how you feel)_ before he trudged to uni, he wouldn’t. There's no way. The whitewashed walls blind him, and even though the middle-aged lady emits a motherly aura, it’s all kinds of intimidating.

“So what can I help you with?”

Despite the mild tone, she sounds...bored. Yeah. Might just be his imagination, though. While flipping through his brain for a response, he zeroes in on a poster on the wall behind her. A circle of flowers surround a pair of anonymous, hugging individuals with a heartwarming message printed below them.

_There’s always someone ready to listen._

Okay. But there’s no way to listen if no one speaks. While Felix fights with himself, his nails create half-moon shaped indents in his palms, and the silence is stifling. _Say you’re feeling a little anxious and overwhelmed and kinda empty and it’s hard to focus and you don’t really know what to do about it but it’s potentially not good and...just say that._

But he doesn’t know how to _just_ say it, not to this unknown someone who’ll probably just belittle him. So he does the following:

Laughs, high-pitched and nervous, and says;

"Um, actually, I’ll get back to you after Christmas, the semester is almost over, after all. Sorry, thanks for your time, and happy holidays."

Tomorrow he’ll deal with it. _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,_ always tomorrow and the chair almost falls over when he bounces up and flings himself outside and as far away as possible.

* * *

“Did it go alright?”

Later, Chris is hopeful. He must not know Felix at all, or alternatively it’s just wishful thinking. And Felix doesn’t _want_ to create a blatant fabrication, he despises it. But it just happens so easily now, like it’s second nature to him. 

“Yeah, it...went...fine. Good.”

Does he feel like an ass for lying? 

Yes.

Does Chris's expression — all dimples and crinkles and relief — make it worth it?

Also yes.

He couldn’t be more delighted and proud. Over a game of Uno, he throws himself into a one-man-monologue on the topic of mental health. Felix listens while still keeping an eye on the cards, his tongue peeking out in concentration because Uno is serious business.

It almost turns into ranting. But there’s such passion behind every word, and Felix wants to be as refined as he is. He wants to express things equally eloquently, to bring a whole room to its knees when he enters, but he can only dream. He feels like he’s forever doomed to be that person who loiters in the corner at parties, clutching a drink to keep their hands occupied and also because they won't have the courage to say a peep otherwise. 

Someone has to play that part in the movie, too. The shy, introverted loner. 

With his ability to captivate any audience, no matter if it's with karaoke or with a heartfelt speech like this, Chris would make a good president. These things — mental health issues — are still too stigmatized by society, he claims.

"No wonder it's intimidating to talk about..."

"Yeah."

"Too many young people suffer alone, and the threshold to get help is too high.”

"Totally."

"And the fact is that —"

“I won.”

“What the — _fucker_ …”

Winning Uno is a big deal, a great badge of honor. Felix dares to titter smugly and stick his tongue out, and Chris isn’t late to jump him. Five minutes later he's pinned down and recovering from being relentlessly tickled. And he traps a breath, when Chris hikes his t-shirt up and noses over his tummy — but a glimpse out the window makes him skid to a stop.

"Oh wow. It's snowing."

"What?"

It is. And soon they’re there to witness it. Felix wears thick mittens a few sizes too big and a tube scarf that leaves nothing but his nose and eyes visible, and they stroll. Down winding streets framed with Christmas trees and fairy lights, with no particular destination in mind. Fluffy, intricately shaped snowflakes swivel around them, and it's so romantic that it's almost disgusting and Sensible-Felix — who’s made a surprise appearance — constantly highlights the fact.

He points to charts and statistics and to Felix’s track record, tuts in regular intervals, and asks; _is_ _this really sensible?_ Real-Felix lurks behind a corner, unsure of who he should listen to exactly.

They argue. Because it's _okay_ now, and so help him god, Felix won't ruin this for himself.

_No._

On the way home, they sip cinnamon-lattes, and Chris remembers something.

"Oh, by the way, I'm having a party next weekend. Like a bit of a Christmas get together, just a small, leisurely gathering. You know. And I'd really love for my boyfriend to be there, obviously."

Felix isn’t sure, but he might mumble something affirmative right away. Without really thinking, because he’s too busy with feeling giddy about being called _boyfriend._ But there’s a gnawing, unidentified concern, too, that Chris doesn't notice. Because Felix, a master deceiver, masks it well. He purrs and nods and smiles in response to everything Chris says. There will be no more breakdowns, he won't allow it.

"I'm looking forward to Christmas,” Chris marvels. “Can't believe it snowed that much. In Seoul. Like what the hell."

"Yeah. Like, what the hell."

"It’s a sign. That it’ll be the best one ever. Well it will anyway, cause I’m spending it with you.”

The cheesiness makes Felix buzz happily. He occupies his favorite couch, discards the thick hoodie when Chris slinks down next to him to act as his heater. Really, he couldn't give a rat's ass about Christmas, but the atmosphere it brings is all kinds of cozy. The kisses taste like mulled wine with a splash of soju and soon his pulse thumps in his ear and all the blood rushes to his crotch.

Sensible-Felix instantly starts babbling and tries to throw sticks in the wheels, so he gives him one last harsh shove. He scuttles off to regroup with Real-Felix, wounded. Meanwhile, Not-Felix stretches out and yawns and thinks; _maybe it's time to come out._

It's Time. It's more than time, it’s overdue again.

It's been so long, but Chris has successfully instilled Felix with a — maybe false, he’s not entirely sure yet — sense of security. The air is heavy with Friday-anticipation, but within these four walls Felix feels like he can shed his protective skin and do the things Not-Felix does in his imagination. 

Not-Felix is a ittle minx who carries himself with poise and flirts unabashedly. Not-Felix just drops to his knees and awards Chris the most enthusiastic of blowjobs because he deserves it. But of course it's not like that, why would it be. And Not-Felix leaves him hanging, because that one time in the shower was apparently just an anomaly. It's fumbly again, his movements choppy and uncoordinated — but he still gives it his best, like a champ. He straddles Chris, shoves freezing hands under his shirt and paints every inch of his mouth with his tongue. 

But the thing is, he can’t let the situation just whisk him away. At least his body responds like it's supposed to now, some parts hardening, others softening, but he has to overthink it. Worry about what he looks like and if he’s acting cringy and if the perpetual hesitance and lack of dirty talk is a turnoff.

But despite the perceived awkwardness, Chris seems to enjoy it. He always bends over backwards to create a safe, warm and comfy atmosphere for Felix. There’s candles, Netflix plays some whimsical k-drama in the background, there’s butt-ugly Christmas curtains with bells on them — and who could feel intimidated by a guy like this. He's a perfect mix of hard and soft and shows no signs of being frustrated or bored and Felix just can’t comprehend it.

But the fact he never pushes it is the only reason he manages to hack out his intentions, with their lips still loosely connected.

"Maybe...if you wanted you could...you know...do it."

Well. He couldn't possibly have sounded more cringy if he tried.

_If you want we could do the thing._

He recalls their first time, how he just flat out told him to _fuck him._ Now that particular word won’t even cross his lips and everything he says comes out squeaky and trembling.

Chris, of course, puts this suggestion through its paces. 

"I really, really want to, but...are you sure? I don't know cause...we haven't really done much since, you know…"

Oh yeah, Felix knows. It’s been months, and it's a burning hot shame. So he overcompensates by pressing harder, shoving his tongue into Chris’s mouth until he’s drunk off the shaky wetness and perky fucking ass grinding all over his lap — but he groans in disappointment when Felix leans back, smirking coyly and separating them.

"What a tease," is his verdict. And the pretty smile before him washes off, replaced by a blank slate. 

Overwhelmed by the sudden change, Chris shakes him a little. Again, and again. The sideswept strands of hair bounce, but his face doesn’t move, and the concern sprouts instantly.

"Lix, what’s up with you? It was a _joke,_ I didn't mean anything by it."

 _Tease._ Tease, what a _tease_. Felix suffers a silent crisis, but he takes it and puts it in a box and ships it all the way to Australia and then he’s alright again.

"Sorry,” he stutters at last. “Sorry, just...no, it’s nothing.”

But it's enough to slow things down. Because Chris is on high alert now, registering every single downward tilt of the mouth and twitch of an eye with renewed vigilance. Still, he carries him to the bedroom when the heat continues to flow between them and Felix is hard and a little misty-eyed and begs him to.

Clothes are peeled off and thrown wherever. Shards of moonlight stretch over Felix's ribcage, blending with the soft glow from the pastel-colored light bulbs he loves so much. His hair is messy and everywhere, strands of it trapped between their lips as Chris splays him out and kisses him until he nearly loses it. When he withdraws, a suggestion slips out. He could bottom, but Felix refuses.

" _No_ , I want you to…to, uh...I want to."

He's not sure why it's so important. Maybe to prove something to himself. Chris agrees, after some whining. But once they're both stripped and bare they run into problems.

Felix’s back contorts into the mattress, his toes curl in discomfort, and it’s not at all smooth and easy like that one time. 

"Breathe...you're tensing up. Deep breaths."

He knows, and he _wants_ this, it definitely feels like he does, but his body is rusty and unused to accommodate anyone. Warm, slick fingers move past puckered flesh, so, _so_ carefully, but he can't help but wince in pain.

"I'm okay, really, you can go on," he assures before Chris can even ask, because his body language screams the opposite. Even though Chris parts his legs and drops hot kisses over his inner thighs and makes him weak. Even though he’s so skilled with his hands and jerks him off simultaneously and plants his intense, calming gaze on him and does everything _right._

It’s not nice like it’s supposed to be. Felix subconsciously fights against the foreign touch, fists the sheet into his hand and stiffens, and Chris stops.

"Hurts?"

The hissing breaths are answer enough, even though he paradoxically shakes his head for all he’s worth.

“No, I’m good.”

"We can stop here, it's alright." Chris leans down to give his cheek a reassuring peck. "We can do something else, whatever you want. Don't force yourself.”

 _"No."_

It comes out a petulant grunt. Chris sighs at the stubbornness, considers refusing, too. It’s no secret that he's smitten, ever since that first night. He’s in love, with the way Felix's hard lines turn supple when he lets himself go, piercing eyes suddenly docile, the baritone morphing into an airy tenor when he touches him. But he remains indecisive. 

There’s something wrong with this picture. Still, he gives in, because he can't say no to Felix.

"You can try turning into your side, maybe. Like when we spoon, it's an easier angle."

After he’s helped him, he teases into overwhelming warmth again, a second finger added when Felix’s breathing levels out.

"Good...good, relax. Just a second, getting more lube."

Felix is all slippery. It runs down the cleft of his ass, down his thighs, and it’s _cold_ and uncomfortable — but Chris’s tongue trails the pale columns of his neck, kissing and sucking and successfully loosening all knots, almost all of them, until he’s molten wax beneath his touch.

“Is that better, huh? Feels good?”

_“Yes.”_

It’s sharp with a hint of annoyance, because his patience is growing thin. He knows it’s his own fault that Chris is so careful with him, but still.

“I'm fine so can you just —"

Suddenly he clenches around nothing, and his ass stings with the aftermath of a palm landing on it. Softly, but with enough impact to catch his attention. He cranes his neck back, seeing Chris hovering over him, eyes narrowed and smile crooked.

“Slapping my ass, huh?”

“Yeah, cause you wanna run before you can crawl. We're not rushing, so relax, okay.”

"Fine, yeah. Okay."

Satisfied, Chris spreads him, eases inside. Felix lays still. Flinches, twitches, but exhales when he’s told to. 

"Alright?”

"Yeah…"

"I'll go slow, if it hurts you have to tell me."

He's so calm and calculated that Felix has no idea how he has this much control over his body, over every limb. But he does, and his hands and mouth are everywhere — fingers slipping over perspiring skin for support, soft _baby's_ whispered against Felix's spine — and not an inch of him shifts until Felix assures he can move. Then he does, with unhurried, measured thrusts.

He does find it a struggle to not just push deep, because Felix is so soft, pale, alive and twitching. But also, vulnerable. Chris plays him right, has him whimpering shamelessly against the pillow in no time like he's supposed to.

"You feel really good baby," he praises, doting as ever, and Felix’s self-confidence grows. Maybe it shouldn’t, shouldn't depend on it, but it does. "So hot, drive me wild. Still okay?"

"Uhuh…"

It's not like Felix had really planned on just laying there like a useless fish on dry land, but it happens. Chris hits the spot, and the pillow is dampened with wet moans. He feels something in his lower tummy pulse, pulse, pulse — and he zones out. He has to, because time goes screwy and then Chris swats his hand away and grabs his dick for him.

That does it. The intimacy, being so close he almost melts into his skin. It sends dirty thrills into all his nerve endings, makes him claw at the mattress and stutter incomprehensibly and curl his spine into Chris’s chest. He wiggles for more friction, which he gets, every muscle tensing as he releases. Afterwards, everything’s a bit hazy, the sheets sticky against his tummy when he's pushed forward so Chris can angle himself better. 

With his eyes closed, Felix loses himself in a rarely experienced high, only feeling wet pressure, noise and panting somewhere in the background, and himself as his muscles flex and twist — and then, a quick and husky _sorry baby_ mumbled in his ear. Because based on the fact that he gripped Felix’s hips hard enough to bruise and lost rhythm — bottoming out for just a few seconds — he just came.

Guilt radiates off him as he slips out and swings Felix around, but it’s instantly brushed off. He’s not _that_ fragile — and flowers blossom within him. Because Chris said he felt good.

“I’m sorry, kinda got carried away...I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no, you didn’t...I loved it.”

For once he’s honest. And he wants it badly for it to always be good. Like in movies, where people just tumble into bed and it’s always hot and perfect, no matter if it's unrealistic or not. He wants it to send Chris's senses into overdrive. He wants to be his one and only daydream, wants all of his needs tended to so he’ll never ever leave.

It’s the opposite of what Chris wants, the opposite of _just be yourself_ — but he can’t help it.

* * *

It's late when they escape under the covers, fresh out of the shower, Felix floats blissfully.

But for once, the night doesn't treat him well.

His mind becomes a death trap, a storm brewing within him. Because how could it not.

Around one AM, out of nowhere, the debrief has ended. Sensible-Felix has things to say, things to _remind_ him of. Felix is carelessly shoved into a whirlpool of nightmares, crashing through layer after protective layer until he reaches the debris containing the forbidden scene. Seaweed winds around his ankles, yanking him back when he struggles towards the surface.

He can’t get there. The weight of the entire ocean crushes him. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to run to while Sensible-Felix plays it for him; _The Last Encounter._ He narrates it soberly, his voice echoing like a priest’s in an underwater church. 

_You spent hours on baking a cake (double choc and raspberry). Your shirt collar itches, but this is the one he bought for you, and the dark, slinky material flows so beautifully over your slender chest. Your movie, once the king of romantic comedies, is corrupted and near-unsalvageable. Harsh interactions and callous words have marred your skin with permanent scars and ugly blotches, but you don’t care. More importantly, you're not ready for it to end — you don’t know who or what you’ll become if it does._

_Because despite everything, there's a tiny, rose-colored knot wedged somewhere between your ribs and it's called love. There’ll be nothing left of you if it's taken away._

_But thirty minutes later, he appears in the doorway, not even vaguely impressed by your efforts._

_You notice he hasn't bothered taking his coat off. All you get is a curt hey. This is the last act, you realize that while your throat starts itching. You're just not enough._

_The whipped cream melts, slowly. When no one speaks, you take a tentative step forward._

_"Hey, so uhm —"_

_"We're over," comes the brutal announcement, landing between you like an invisible barrier. "You do nothing but whine and cry about everything and cling to me like a fucking leech. You're like a child."_

_"I'll do better," you ramble instantly. "I'll do better, I will." But you sound weak and guilty, not even close to convincing like you intended. He folds his arms, gives you that poisonous glare, and you don't understand how someone can have so many faces._

_"Uhuh. It’s been months and you’re still the same. All this time and you haven't put out even though you flirt and grind on other guys like a little slut every time we're at the club. Pretty sure you cheated too. I'm done."_

_The last word cuts you, the d roughly popped, so final. But the insults fly over your head, you don’t even care. Because you know it must be frustrating, dealing with someone like you. But if he could just give you one more chance, just one?_

_"I didn't, I swear I didn't, I haven't even...it was just dancing...it doesn't mean anything, I was drunk —"_

_"Save it, jesus..."_

_A raised hand shuts you up as you try to explain, with words butchered by bordering-on-tears. You don't get to say that you've always been insecure and alcohol lets you out of your shell and you're just trying to be chatty and friendly and did you really act like that, like a slut? You don't know. But all you know is that he's looking at you with lips curled in disgust so you must have._

_"I'm sorry," you try, ready to say anything, everything. "I didn't mean to...I’m so sorry. Just don't leave me."_

_But your voice betrays you, your face crumbles. The display is met with an indifferent scoff. (You're so ugly when you cry Felix, it makes me want to ruin you.)_

_"You're insufferable, a brat, and you've got major issues," he announces, coolly as ever, not an ounce of sympathy spared. "And no one has patience for it. And what’s with the cake, are you twelve?”_

_"No it’s because —"_

_“Anyway, don’t have time. Bye."_

_He turns, leaving behind a whiff of high-end of cologne. The door vibrates on its hinges, and he's gone._

_"...it's cause it's my birthday."_

_The vacated room offers you no reaction, no rain of confetti or candles to blow._

_You're nineteen. Happy birthday._

_The world is still just as confusing as when you were little, peeking up at the sky with curious innocence from your sandbox. You wondered how it could stay up there without falling, how the clouds could float seemingly by themselves. Someone must have fastened it with pins, you thought, and wondered who. Still, you just settled for the fact that somehow it stayed up there, even though you didn't understand it. You thought life would be so equally captivating and wondrous and nothing but that, didn't you?_

_On your kitchen table, two spoons rest on the untouched plates. You seize one of them, unbuttoning your shirt while your gaze shifts to the window. There's clouds on the evening sky now, too, and splashes of magenta circling the rooftops. Pressure builds in your chest as you dig into it, carving out strings of connective tissue and spoonfuls of blood until you reach your pulsating core._

_In one swift move you rip the slimy bundle of muscle out. It hits the floor with a splat, the life-upholding thuds gradually fading into stillness while you stare at it impassively. The kitchen floor is stained red and brown, your mind a vast space expanding until nothing can interact anymore. You stuff the gaping hole left behind with anything inanimate you can find — rusty screws and nails, dust from forgotten corners of your apartment, wet gravel from outside._

_Your body can't sustain life anymore. The hardware breaks and malfunctions, only to shut down with a sinister squeak._

Sensible-Felix hums _. And what did you do to us after that? What did you have to go and do?_

It all ends with that uncomfortable sensation of falling. Felix launches straight up, unsure if he just screamed or not.

Chris’s snores and the faint creak of the bed as he readjusts with a grumble suggests it's a no. At first, Felix fleetingly thinks he's entered his own soul, because it's _dark,_ darker than usual. He can’t see shit, and his heart. It's gone.

After pressing a palm to his chest, he's sure of it. There's nothing _there_ , no matter how much he tries to shove it into different places, hard enough hurt as he digs and pokes too roughly.

Utter panic overtakes him, intense enough to yank Chris out of his coma. 

“Ugh — what the —"

"I don't have a heart, my heart's gone —"

_“What?”_

He blinks rapidly to try to get accustomed to the heavy blanket of darkness, his hands reaching for the the nightstand lamp. When it flicks on, he's met with Felix, the t-shirt bunched around his neck, and his nails, ripping up shallow gashes as they scratch aimlessly.

“What are you _doing?!"_

Chris tries to reach for him, but Felix dodges his hands, his breaths coming in heaves, torn apart by sobs and he can’t fucking _see —"_

"Felix —"

_"My heart is gone —"_

"What the hell are you _talking_ about, _stop it_...you're hurting yourself..."

Felix's jaw slams shut then, because he _doesn't get it_. He can't feel it, so how is it there? He curses him out, sending a fist straight into his gut without thinking, but he's wrestled down in no time. Chris takes care of not snapping his arms in half while mumbling instructions to him, voice laden with sleep and confusion, but never once rising from its gentle crooning.

" _Come on,_ you're dreaming. You have a heart, you're _breathing_ and alive right now, so you _have_ to have a heart."

Felix flails, and cries; _no, no, no, I don't —_ but Chris settles a palm on his chest, while the other holds him down.

"Here."

The second he stops thrashing and screaming, Felix can finally make it out. _Th-th-th-thump._

_"What..."_

He goes limp. When he decides it's safe, Chris pulls him up, sighing from the other side of him as he slots them together. Felix barely hears him over the now frantic pounding in his chest.

"What am I gonna do with you…"

_"It felt so real..."_

"Yeah. Yeah but it wasn't. It wasn't, it was just a dream. You're okay, it's alright."

But it was. Real.

Once he's nice and calm and Chris has fetched band-aids and inspected his chest and made sure nothing is bleeding anymore, he's coaxed down again. The night cocoons him like always, but now it's not a gentle hand keeping him safe anymore, it's squeezing him painfully. Now it threatens and mocks him. 

“Why did he say that if it's not true?”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he must have. Because behind him, Chris props himself up on an elbow, ears perked and shaken by the hollowness of his voice.

"Who? Felix, who?"

Felix's eyes wander to the window. The blinds have been opened, and it's not dark like it’s supposed to be. Blinking city lights reflect in the glass, passing in tiny fragments, film stills, never ending stop-motion animation. He watches them, while Chris sneaks an arm under him to keep him from slipping away somewhere again. And waits.


	6. alabaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellllllo
> 
> This chapter was actually 10k, but I split it up, so next chapter will be out rather soon  
> And don't think there's not more angst around the corner cause there is c:  
> If you enjoyed pls leave me a comment, I'm starved ♡ thank you a bunch for reading and take care ♡

People look the most peaceful moments before they wake. Felix is no different. All traces of the 1AM terror ordeal are gone, his features smoothed into angelic perfection again, just a hint of teeth showing behind sleep-puffed lips. His button nose twitches intermittently, greasy bangs swirling down his forehead, clumped together and messy. He still hasn't dyed his roots, and as a result, they're growing like weeds, dark strands bleeding into light.

He usually sleeps all scrunched up, limbs bent into impossible positions that leave him with stiff shoulders and sore joints, but now he's on his back, limp hands resting on the covers. Fluffy, light blue covers pulled up to his armpits, but if Chris were to hike them down, the illusion would shatter.

He does. And grimaces when the piercing winter sun sheds light on last night's mayhem. He runs fingers over his chest, down his tapered waist. The scratches are still there, a pentagram tattooed into his skin, reaching all the way down to his ribcage, the worst ones covered in band-aids. He managed to do that to himself in just a few minutes. They look even more gruesome in daylight, and some of them will scar for sure.

"What are you doing —"

Felix rouses, groggy and feeling like death itself, but when he's lucid enough to understand that he's not horizontal anymore, Chris is already done with one hand. 

"Cutting your nails."

He's dragged him into his lap, nail clippers working swiftly before Felix has a chance to start protesting. But he does anyway. Well, tries.

"And why the _fuck_ —”

 _"Because you fucking hurt yourself last night,"_ Chris snaps. And doesn't even feel one ounce of remorse for it. It silences any opposition, because even Felix must understand that ripping himself to pieces in the middle of the night will warrant this kind of response.

So he lets himself be cradled like a cat until Chris is finished with him and his nails are down to harmless stumps. Lets himself be cuddled and digs his face into Chris t-shirt and complains — dramatically — about needing a nap, pronto. 

And they can nap. Later. It’s one of Felix’s favorite pastimes and Chris knows he feels at ease here, considers his apartment a safe haven with its mismatched second hand cushions, dark velvet curtains and paisley-patterned wallpaper, thinks it’s so much more homely and inviting than his own. He loves to lay curled up on the couch with his books or his assignments and watch Chris fiddle with his lyrics and his beats, and he loves his bedroom with the fairy lights and the quaint kitchen with the high-end espresso machine.

But not even that is enough. Not the fact he’s in the only place in the world he feels _safe_ and able to be his own unguarded self is enough to keep everything from spiraling, because it does. When it dawns on him, that Chris won't just let last night go — that he won't just let him unravel slowly like always — it does.

Because Chris wants Felix. Like really _wants_ him, in every single way you can have a person. He knows it, because even now, after they've passed the initial stage of infatuation, Felix's name is still plastered on a gigantic billboard in his brain, neon green letters shining an undying light on his existence. He wants to know his opinion on every single topic, wants to see the seasons change and how he changes with them, wants to sit in a room and do nothing with him but also wants them to travel to Australia together. He wants to see what Felix's hair looks like all curly and tangled from saltwater, wants to see the sun scatter more freckles across his nose, wants them to go for beach walks and picnics and ride swan-shaped love boats and big ass roller coasters together.

All those things he didn't use to care about. Sappy clichés straight out of romantic comedies suddenly feel so right, because he'd be experiencing them with Felix.

Everything. He wants everything, the ups and the downs. And it's so good when it's good but when it's not, it's a confusing soup. And he always just waits patiently for the day Felix's doors will fly open like heavens gates and allow him entry, but now, he's started to realize that day will never come. That he'll always remain just a little bit on the outside unless he breaks them down.

Outside is like a Christmas card. Frosty and serene, perfect for a walk, and Felix is a calm ocean as he stretches out in bed like a feline. But when Chris prods him, tells him — just a tad firmer than usual — that he _needs_ to know who he rambled about last night, he whips up a storm and wants none of it.

"No one, I was just rambling as you said.”

“Alright, but you’ve rambled too many times now, so —”

“I was half asleep and talking out of my ass, okay? Let me go, I have a thing, need to go home."

He struggles to work one of Chris's k-pop themed t-shirts over his head while trying to bulldoze his way out. But he can't, because the doorway is securely blocked.

"What thing? It's Saturday and the semester is over —”

"Just a thing! Let me go!"

But when Chris refuses to budge and repeats it — _what damn thing_ — he yields pretty quickly. Mostly because last night was brutal enough to leave him with indents in his brain. He can't conjure a lie fast enough.

Chris pushes, gently. "Sit down for a moment, okay? Please."

"I need coffee," Felix sulks. He's herded towards the edge of the bed, and shoved down.

"I'll get you a coffee, hold on."

Some five minutes later he’s chugging cold brew like it's the elixir of life, cross-legged and defensive. His t-shirt is on backwards, stale tufts of clotted hair poking up at the back of his head.

"So?"

"It was a nightmare. I dreamt someone ripped my heart out. Happens."

"Uh, no. Doesn't really happen that much. Nightmare my ass, nightmares are one thing, but this was bordering on psychosis."

He doesn't even have time to register his piss poor choice of words, doesn't ever fucking seem to remember that anything relating to _crazy_ makes Felix go haywire. All he sees is the brown stain spreading over the sheet after the mug of coffee is thrown to hell, and all he hears are the hissed words he leaves in his wake.

"So I'm a psycho now, that's nice _."_

Then, he's gone like poof. And Chris slaps himself, like, _actually_ slaps himself, before galloping after him.

When he catches him in the hallway, he's already managed to drag one of his doc martens on. Chris lowers himself down, tries to haul him in, but it's like trying to force his way through an electric fence. His hands are batted away, the other doc marten dragged on and sloppily tied at alarming speed.

"Felix, baby, I'm just shit at speaking, you know I didn't mean anything by it, but this is getting too intense — hey, can you _listen_ — where are you _going?!"_

"Anywhere!"

Felix crawls up ungracefully, bouncing out of reach of the grabby hands making for him.

“But you don’t even have your coat — _Felix!”_

Too late. 

_“God damn it_ _—”_

The door is wide open, and Chris chases him down the stairs. A million thoughts scurry through his head _—_ the most pressing one being that Felix just ran out. In nothing but a t-shirt and shorts, because he’s _that_ panicked, or deranged, or both. And that’s a clear sign that everything is getting too intense like he just said.

They reach the bottom floor. Chris curses when he misses him with just a few inches and the front door shuts in his face. He flings himself outside, repeatedly yelling _wait!_ without getting any kind of response. But just as he gets ready to race after him again, the slippery driveway leading up to his building becomes Felix’s demise. He trips, yelps, and faceplants. And happens to land right in front of Chris’s elderly neighbor Mrs Wang, just barely avoiding smothering her startled poodle into a pancake on the way down.

Her eyes blow into saucers, the dog starts yapping, and everything is a bit chaotic. Mrs Wang looks most perplexed at the sight of the young man laying face down in a puddle of melted slush and gravel, so Chris hurries to whip out a sparkling smile and wave his hand in calm dismissal.

“Hello ma’am, sorry about this, terribly sorry. Please, after you.”

After a disapproving snort and some more gawking, she pulls the pooch along and disappears down the road. Chris exhales, and shifts his attention to the worm squirming below him. Meaning, Felix. He snivels pitifully while struggling to push himself up on his elbows, much less keen on taking a hike than he was just a minute ago.

_“Ow."_

“Are you hurt? Let me see."

Turns out it's a no, minus the fact that he’s drenched, his knees are a little bruised and red and his dignity has taken a hit. Chris hunches down and strokes his back until he's allowed to pull him up and brush the grime and patches of snow off him. Thankfully, at this point, he’s given up all ideas of running off to...wherever he was headed. He doesn't really know himself, but he lets himself be whisked inside again with his teeth clattering and his t- shirt clinging to his torso.

What a start to this day _._ Chris has urgent, urgent questions — such as, _what the hell did you do that for_ — but he doesn’t ask them. Yet.

When they arrive upstairs, he makes sure to lock the door, while Felix sinks into a defeated heap on the floor. Chris throws a blanket over him and makes a beeline for the bedroom. When he returns, tiny sobs can be heard from within the Felix-bundle.

"Hey. Here’s a fresh t-shirt for you.”

It takes a while, but eventually he shimmies out of the soiled one and into the new one with some difficulty.

Chris pokes his shoulder experimentally after he's settled again. Once, twice, but he just pushes his head further into his knees. It must be hard to breathe like that. 

"What's this all about, huh? I need you to talk to me."

But not a single peep emerges. Chris lets it go for now, figures he just needs some time to land. But soon thirty minutes has passed, there's moss growing on them, and the situation is nowhere closer to resolved

"So, Felix...did you plan on sitting here all day, then?"

"Yes.”

"Okay, the scenery is really riveting and all, but the floor is a bit hard, my butt hurts. Maybe we could move to the couch."

There's a noncommittal noise from within the bundle. It could be a _yes_ , could be a _no,_ could be a _fuck you_ , he can't really tell.

"Listen...I know you don't wanna talk," he coos. "But frankly, it's not a choice anymore. So let's have ask anything-chat, right now."

"I don't fucking want ask anything-chat right now!"

Felix's head shoots up, his hoarse scream rattling up Chris's spine and into his skull. _Holy shit_ , he can be so loud when he wants to. He should be nothing but bouncy and happy but he's back to hostile, eyes like blocks of black ice. But Chris can't always use cotton gloves, it's been so long and it amounts to nothing. So he just unleashes everything and bellows back, overruling him easily when he pushes into standing and prepares for another round.

 _"I want to just_ —”

"I don't care what you _want!"_

He cringes when his own ears end up ringing, but it can't be helped. And it shuts Felix up, so he seizes the opportunity to carry on.

"You don't understand _what_ you need, you never talk about anything, _ever_. You don’t tell me why you keep having these depressive episodes or why you’re so scared of intimacy or why you start crying out of nowhere or what the fuck just happened!? You just pretend whatever is bothering you doesn't exist and you can’t anymore, because if you do then —" 

Before finishing, he has to pause — disentangle the words because his throat feels too hot, too tight. "...then it'll just keep haunting you and pull you into a deadly swamp that I won't be able to get you out of. Understand?" 

They're caught in a deadlock, just sizing each other up. Felix fizzles silently, like a tiny rattlesnake.

"I'm trying to help you," Chris tells him, soft and disarming.

For a second it looks like he's about to do a 180 into the bedroom again and barricade himself inside. That would be a very Felix-thing to do. But it doesn't happen, and he's the first one to give in. His shoulders sag, the defiant stare drops to the floor.

"Okay. Okay, ask anything-chat."

Chris swipes them both to the couch before he can change his mind. Makes sure he's relaxed, lets a few fingers travel up and down his spine in comfort and lets him disappear down the opening of his t-shirt out of habit.

"One question," he promises, and crosses his fingers, just in case.

"One," Felix mutters. 

"Who was it you talked about last night?"

"My ex," he says finally after an eternity of chewing on his shirt collar, with the same robotical voice Chris is used to hearing whenever he makes a revelation. "He broke up with me."

"When was this?"

"Over a year ago."

This was only supposed to be one question, but now that Chris has him on the line, he kind of abuses it. He pulls some more information out of him, little by little. Learns that Felix met him at a bar and that he was instantly lured in by his striking charm and undeniable charisma. 

“He was a bit like you, like...so self-assured, the complete opposite of me,” Felix says with a timid sideways look. But then, he hurries to make it known that in every other way, this guy wasn't like Chris at all. Not soft-spoken and empathetic like Chris, not attentive and loving like Chris. And that's a relief to hear, but the rest of it summons dark clouds to the horizon.

"So...what happened? What did he say about you that made you so upset?"

It almost looks like Felix is about to spew some truths for once. But no, he quickly changes direction and dithers, more vague half-sentences falling out of him.

"Ah, it was just...you know…he got tired of me, said I'm too immature and boring to be in a relationship with and whatnot, and well, he…" 

A finch flapping around the bird feeder just outside the window catches his curiosity. While looking out, he paws at his chest without noticing, fingers tracing the outlines of the band-aids. And seems to be floating somewhere far, far away.

"...he was kinda mean to me. I always felt like...he didn't see me," he finishes. "When I talked, he didn't...listen, didn’t understand me. Not like you. I was too much of a kid for him I guess."

Chris's heart clenches then. Because Felix _is_ a kid, in so many ways. He has a childlike innocence to him, gets almost bizarrely excited about things like ramen, bubble baths and 3D cinema, is cuddly and clingy and so frail, but if this anonymous someone ever found that anything but endearing, Chris's fist needs to have a chat with his face.

"There's nothing wrong with...being a kid," he reassures. "You were only eighteen. Was it your first relationship? If he said something mean to you that's just him being an ass and not appreciating you, really." 

Felix mumbles something that sounds dangerously close to _my fault_ , and receives insistent head-shaking back.

"No. Lix...is that why you have, like...abandonment issues? Because he left you?"

He gets nothing but avoidant shrugs and pouting after that. It's clear they’ve reached the dead-end because when Felix reveals things, he does it in microscopic doses. And if Chris pokes after the tap has closed, he just gets stonewalled. So he just chooses to slather his voice in melted caramel instead, and scoot closer to him.

"Alright. If this is something you need or want to talk about...you can. Did the counselor mention if she could refer you to uni healthcare and schedule regular visits to a therapist?"

Felix looks way too guilty for his own good, eyes darting over the coffee table, to Chris’s yucca palm tree in the corner, anywhere but his face. He cajoles it out of him at last, what he already kind of suspected but hoped to be wrong about.

"Unbelievable. I should have known. So you just flat out lied about talking to her?"

"I'm sorry," Felix confirms weakly, head hanging low in shame.

Chris paces a few laps on the rug, unsure what reaction even is appropriate. So he settles for just muffling a scream with his knuckles and wondering what he's supposed to do with this mess of a person who he can’t seem to get to the bottom of. But while he does, Felix decides to start deflecting everything he says again.

"I'm _sorry_ okay, but you were the one who practically forced me into it.”

"I didn’t force you, I just nudged you in the right direction. Cause otherwise you won't do anything about it."

"Yeah cause I don't _need_ to!"

"Don't need to, _fucking_ —”

 _Deep breaths._ Deep breaths, deep, deep breaths before he combusts and his organs end up splattered all over the walls. He manages it, even manages a strained, reassuring smile.

"Look Felix, I love you, but right now you're pissing me off. So please stop being stubborn because this is getting worse, and you keep refusing to acknowledge it and I don't know where you'll end up if —”

Felix's face is what makes him gradually dwindle until he falls silent. He doesn’t look like a predator anymore, but like a small, lost boy where he huddles, swollen eyes huge and vulnerable.

"What? What's wrong?"

"You — you... _love me?"_

Chris blinks about a thousand times. Oh god. He did say that, didn't he. Three little syllables with unimaginable impact. 

Fuck. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He'd pictured mistletoes and sparkling Christmas ornaments and a crackling fire and himself mumbling it during one of those aforementioned grossly clichéd moments. Like during a walk in the moonlight, or better yet, in bed when he has Felix pinned under him. He’d whisper it against the pale columns of his throat just after he blisses out an orgasm, just when the world is at its haziest, and rose petals would instantly start falling from the sky, cupids would gather around them to shoot tiny arrows while the sounds of harps echo in the distance and everything would be so _perfect_ —

Not like this. Not in passing and spoken so carelessly without paying attention to enunciation or intonation, not when there’s at least six feet separating them, not when his voice has risen a few octaves because Felix _lied_ to him. _Not like this._

But then he realizes. When he sees tear tracks on glossy cheeks and sees Felix shrink at least three sizes until there’s barely anything left of him, sees his eyes flickering with uncertainty and fear. When he looks like he's just waiting for someone to pop up and yell _surprise bitch_ , this is a sick joke, or for Chris to backtrack and tell him _no_ , he didn't mean it _like that —_ then he realizes. That it's so long overdue.

He strides across the room, enters Felix's little bubble, sees him swallow repeatedly and sees his fingers move to his elbow. When he's nervous he tears, nips and claws at himself, but at least now, he can't do any real damage. 

"Yeah. I love you," Chris repeats, and it's the easiest thing he's ever had to say.

Felix's expression seals it. And why can't he look like that all the time, like entire gardens of exotic flowers bloom on his cheeks and whole galaxies worth of stars twinkle in his eyes. He curls around him like a koala and his voice is so gravelly from crying that it sounds like rusty spikes but it doesn't matter, because it's equally sincere and holds so much gratitude that Chris turns misty-eyed fast.

"I love you too."

Chris dives in for a kiss, slow and lingering. One of so many more to come.

"You'll go to the counselor after Christmas," he informs him after reluctantly disconnecting them. And maybe it's not entirely right to take advantage of his cooperative state right now, but might as well.

"Okay," Felix agrees instantly.

"I'll come with you.”

"Thanks."

"And everything will be okay."

Chris feels the last bit of tension evaporate, and then Felix is calm and snug in his arms. When the last mumbled _okay_ arrives, spoken into the junction of his neck, he's convinced it might even be sincere this time.

* * *

Christmas is twelve days away. The world is the purest of whites, and, occasionally, an uninspiring gray when it all melts, but then it freezes again, releasing another steady downward spiral of snowflakes.

But ever since last Saturday's screamfest turned into a festival of love, Felix notices a perceivable change. Not a bad change, necessarily. But Chris seems to study him more intently and take longer to answer, like he’s analyzing everything he says more carefully. Possibly he doesn't really trust him anymore, because of the lies and all the weird ass behavior. 

And Felix gets it. He knows he's such an enigma, that he can be the epitome of sweet and good-natured but if you scrape a little too hard on the surface he sprouts with lethal thorns, pointy enough to impale anyone who comes too close. He knows it, the trio of Felixes know it, the universe knows it. 

But Real-Felix clears the cobwebs out of Felix's chest and decorates it with marshmallow fluff and pink balloons and does everything to make it fit to house a heart again. And thrives, because Chris is still there, smiling just as brightly as before. Not-Felix is bored and announces he's around in case he's needed, while Sensible-Felix comes out of hiding ever so often, buzzing with anger because his sneaky memory bomb wasn't enough to halt the operation. He's ignored, mostly.

Felix is pummeled by icy winds and buys a butt-ugly, padded winter coat in the shade mousy brown. Meanwhile, Chris retains an aura of elegance in his long black peacoat and doesn't think it's cold at all. Together, they make an odd pair. Felix looks like a penguin waddling the streets during their Christmas shopping, a fact that has to be highlighted, obviously.

"Shut your face," Felix hisses to that, before he almost slips on a strip of ice.

That just makes it all the more entertaining, obviously.

Felix feels like Christmas is being stuffed down his throat wherever he goes, but he puts up with it. Mostly for Chris. He watches him bake a gingerbread apartment complex with intricate frosting around every window and sits through torturous Christmas movies on Netflix and lets himself be dressed in a hideous sweater with reindeer on (with matching reindeer horns).

Chris gushes, and Felix secretly wants to drive a fork through him. But secretly he also likes his sweater, cause it’s warm, and Chris gave it to him. It'll be over soon anyway.

Christmas gift exchange won’t be happening, though. Chris makes it crystal clear early on.

“It’s kinda dumb anyway. Like why should we buy shit for each other just cause baby Jesus was born? Let's take a stand and refuse to make this Christmas a corporate-driven display of consumerism culture. It's mostly about taking a breather and spending time with people you love anyway, like family and friends. We can do something together instead, like go for a weekend trip somewhere."

He ponders and continues his rant, and Felix listens attentively to everything this descendant of the three wise men says.

The idea of doing something together instead is appealing, but he knows the reasoning is bullshit. Because firstly, despite not being even remotely religious, Chris is a sucker for all things christmassy and traditional, including the baby Jesus. And secondly, he loves giving gifts. So the reason must be that he knows Felix is as broke as they come and wants to spare him the headache of spending money he doesn’t have — and that fact warms his poor, mangled heart.

His economy truly is unstable and close to non-existent, and it gives Chris ideas. He’s not sure if the restaurant he works at needs new employees, but he could always ask. After the holidays, before suggesting it to Felix. Maybe just a couple evening shifts a week, to earn some extra cash. But he also gets other, brasher ideas. 

A few days later, he rummages through Felix’s cupboards and complains — like he so often does — that they're like a barren wasteland. 

“This is bad. You can’t survive on just cup noodles, crackers and coffee.”

“Apparently I can. Can’t afford anything else anyway,” Felix deadpans, but Chris isn't having it this time.

“Move in with me then?”

Felix inhales a mouthful of coffee through his nose, and nearly dies. Both because it stings like a bitch, and because he didn’t expect that so out of the blue.

“Only if you want," Chris clarifies while slam dunking him in the back. "I mean, it would make things a little easier. You already spend most of your time at my place and you wouldn’t have to pay full rent and...it would be...cozy.”

_Cozy._

So they’ve reached that part of their relationship now, leveled up to Serious. It would definitely be cozy. And it would alleviate things considerably, but it would also come with potential...downsides. It would be harder to do the things Felix knows are no good for him but that he still does, because it helps him cope. Like feeding his coffee addiction and taking more than the recommended amount of painkillers and downing a whole bottle of soju too fast because it helps him sleep when his head won't stop screaming at him. 

It would be harder to stay up all night dwelling when he really shouldn’t, while glancing at the star-prickled sky and slurping mug after mug of tea, harder to retreat into his own little private hole to hibernate if he'd need to.

And maybe Chris would get tired of having him around all the time and maybe he'd demand they have sex more often and maybe he'd finally discover how unstable Felix really can be and —

 _Scary_. 

The following evening — after they've ventured outside to pick up Chinese and then back home asap so Felix can wrap himself in a blanket — Chris notices. He notices micro changes in Felix's body language, just barely there. It might slip past someone else, but not him. He notices how he seems weirdly aloof, how he reaches for the tall glass of soju between every bite of noodle, how his smile dissolves when he thinks Chris isn't looking.

Later, empty boxes occupy the coffee table, and Felix occupies Chris's lap. His lips taste bitter and his gaze is flimsy and Chris's hands roam, traveling under his sweatshirt and tracing the contours of his ribs all the way up to his nipples. Felix flinches, but presses himself closer, grinding downwards insistently. While he whines into Chris’s mouth, his hand moves down, ghosting over the bulge in his pants, fingering at his fly — and Chris almost succumbs. To what’s obviously thrumming between them, the promise of hotter kisses, filthier touches, but something's missing. It feels like Felix is on autopilot, it doesn’t feel right.

He stops him, fingers curling around his wrist before he can drag his pants down.

"Tell me what you want?"

"Anything you want," comes the immediate answer, and that’s the problem. It sounds like a recorded message, one he always has on standby. Chris is pretty sure Felix would just let himself be fucked face first into the mattress and moan prettily even if he wasn't in the mood — and that's what makes his stomach silently churn.

So he works him off so they're sitting next to each other instead, ignoring the disappointed mewl as he moves the glass of soju away from him.

"Wait a second. What's wrong, huh? You've seemed kinda sad and withdrawn ever since I asked you to move in yesterday."

Felix looks wildly taken aback, which is surprising. He must not be aware he’s an open book for Chris to read at the moment.

"No, sorry, it's not that…or well, now that we’re talking about that...have you ever shared a place with anyone? With like...a partner?"

He fiddles with the strings to his sweatpants, bashfully adding that it’s okay if he doesn’t want to say. They haven’t really talked about past relationships much, but Chris shares details about himself freely and generously, as always.

"It’s alright. And yeah, I lived with my ex boyfriend. For like...six months. But it’s been a while since then, a few years. What about you?"

Felix shakes his head, stiff and pouty-lipped. He doesn’t ask, but wonders who this unknown ex is. Wonders if he’s hot and interesting and good in bed. But mostly he just sinks again, because this is yet another field he has less experience in and he just wants things to happen effortlessly. So badly.

"There's no pressure baby,” Chris reminds him when sensing the obvious confliction. “You can take your time thinking about it."

He didn’t mean _now,_ but Felix falls into contemplation. And when he does, his blunt nails suffer, filed down until there's nothing left of them and Chris steps in.

"No nail biting.”

“Sorry —”

Felix groans in frustration. He should wear mittens, maybe that would help. Chris reels him in, nuzzling into his hair because he can tell Felix is having one of those certified Bad Days, and he wants it to end on a positive note.

“Tell me what you want. And don't just say you wanna do what I wanna do, you're always so agreeable. It's kinda concerning, how you say yes to everything."

 _Except to stuff that's important, such as trusting me when I tell you a therapist could help_ , he adds wordlessly to himself, snorting. But doesn't state it out loud, obviously, because he already chewed Felix out for it and he already agreed to going.

Meanwhile, Felix squirms, because he knows he does. Because what he wants sounds lame and that’s why he always follows Chris around like a lost puppy and lets him decide. Because then at least it can’t be lame. But whatever.

"Well...maybe we could...have a bath," he murmurs, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. Chris's tub is one of his favorite features of his apartment, and it's been a while.

"Bubble bath?"

Obviously. While it runs and clusters of raspberry-scented bubbles appear, Chris helps him out of his five million layers of clothes; two t-shirts and a sweatshirt and a hoodie and extra thick sweatpants. Once he’s bared, he notices him shy away from his touches, arms folded tightly around his midsection, his eyes plastered to the faint, red lines on his chest. They’re healing, but they still protrude like blood in the sand. Not to mention that his knees are covered in welts, courtesy of the nosedive he took last Saturday, and his arms are littered with scabs because he still can’t get rid of his bad habits.

He feels like he fades in comparison to Chris. Chris whose hair has grown out, leaving only the tips flaming red, Chris who's all supple and intact, smooth abs and sculpted biceps, not a single scar or discoloration in sight. Felix's face drops, but his arms are gently pried off his stomach just as he considers pulling his clothes on again.

"Don't hide from me. You don't know how gorgeous you are."

He stops shivering once he’s enveloped and eventually, lowered into the tub. There he relaxes into the familiar embrace, head resting on Chris’s chest, their legs tangled together. Chris runs a finger down his spine and the small of his back, admiring the droplets of water breaking over the curve of his ass as he moves. Occasionally, he engages him in chit chat, just enjoying all the small things Felix likes to talk about, things he never paid any attention to before they met. Tonight’s interesting star constellations and if eskimos really eskimo-kiss and what chemical process it is that makes bubble bath so foamy.

And he can’t, for the love of him, understand how this mystery ex of his could have considered _this_ guy boring.

“Where do you want to work after uni?”

The water has gone lukewarm, so Chris reaches for the tap after asking, still with Felix clinging to his neck. He always wants it scolding hot, a wish he's granted because his boyfriend is absolutely smitten and can't deny him anything. While it pours, he gives the unexpected question some thought.

“I...actually don’t know. I thought I knew, I was planning to maybe work with translation or something...but lately I’ve started feeling like…I don’t know if I even want to study language. I just started studying Korean because I didn’t know what else to do and I got in, but now...I don’t know.”

His own revelation seems to floor him, like this is the first time he has that insight. Chris, on the other hand, isn't surprised.

“I’ve noticed you don’t seem very motivated anymore. But...you’re young. You still have time to do a lot of stuff, you could take a gap year and work, or do anything. The world is your oyster.”

Felix’s plush lips stretch into a smile on his skin. They breathe in sync, engulfed by slow, rippling waves. Chris gets semi-hard, because he does have Felix slotted against him, but to his relief it doesn’t seem to stress anyone out. Felix just nestles further into him, happily churring, even though there’s a boner digging into his groin again. After a while he feels him mouth something over his chest, but it’s so muffled he can’t make it out.

"Hm? What's that?"

"I wanna...do it. Move in."

Chris forgets to breathe for a few seconds. Felix, reaching a decision this quick, that's completely unheard of.

"Really? You sure?"

"Yeah.”

It sounds honest, unwavering. Chris’s heart performs somersaults while he brushes wet bangs out of Felix’s forehead, his thumb circling the collections of faint freckles around his nose. He hauls him up so he can sneak into the snug space in between his neck and shoulder and press light kisses over his saturated skin, and Felix melts into him, mumbles that he’s excited but also... _scared._

Like, fucking scared shitless. 

He admits it after some hesitation, that he’s scared (is there ever a time he isn’t?) because he's never done this before. The monologue almost turns into a theater of self-deprecation again, when he swears that Chris will for _sure_ get bored of him and for _sure_ get pissed at his habit of staying up late and for _sure_ get annoyed at him for like a thousand other reasons — but Chris just kisses him breathless to shut him up this time.

"No. I won’t. I'll take care of you, and we'll be okay."

"We will?"

"Yeah. Know why?"

Felix raises his chin to look at him questionably, and disappears into the kind brown eyes, sighs contently as he’s pulled in and hugged as close as humanly possible. And then Chris tells him why, with their lips loosely connected. 

Cause he _loves_ him, and now that he’s said it once, he can’t seem to say it often enough to make up for all the times he didn't.


	7. crimson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi o/
> 
> I should never say "soon" because I just jinx it c: I tweaked this chapter so much after it was already done but here it is anyway ahdjsj. And sorry this so slow but  
> things will come to light soon (I said soon again T^T). This chap was supposed to be included in the last chap so it kinda ties in with the last one therefore
> 
> Excuse typos and thank you for reading and take care ♡ always love hearing your thoughts, they motivate me ♡

There's never a quiet decline into disorder, no warnings of what's to come before it hits. 

It merely hits.

Felix has learnt that by now, because it's exactly like in movies. It's not like it's any fun if it's all bland and predictable, the audience would fall asleep. Plot twists catch you off guard and that's the thrill of it, but not when Felix is the one starring and no one handed him the script.

The bubbling excitement he felt at the idea of living with Chris is there, but it's leveled to a simmer. It's all Sensible-Felix's fault. Not-Felix and Real-Felix try to placate him, but he just whines about worst case scenarios and gives unsolicited opinions no one asked for.

One day before Christmas — a Wednesday — Felix wakes in his favorite bed, in an ocean of newly washed sheets and pillows. The first thing he sees is the tower of boxes opposite him, three of them stacked on top of each other. Brown cardboard boxes. Boxes containing stuff, mostly clothes. 

_His_ clothes. 

Because yesterday, they packed some of it up and stuffed it into Chris's car and brought it here. Felix remembers wearing a silly smile for the entirety of it. He remembers thinking that it's so cute that his shirts will share a space with Chris's shirts and maybe catch that particular Chris-smell he loves so much. Remembers thinking it’s so cozy that his novelty grumpy cat mug will stand next to Chris's on the designated shelf in the kitchen. Remembers thinking it’s so nice that they'll make joint decisions about things like cleaning and shopping and stuff.

It's still like that, but he feels something else too (other than an intrusive headache, because he’s clenched his jaw in his sleep again).

He feels a little trapped.

Because is Felix _really_ a person who can share a place with someone, even if the someone is Chris? 

He lays on his back and stares at the crack in the ceiling and listens to Sensible-Felix explain why it’s a bad idea. The whiteboard he uses to explain the science of Worst Case Scenarios has come out, a giant NO scribbled on it in choppy letters. But Felix tries to present counter arguments.

Such as:

  1. Chris calls him dumb (cute) nicknames.
  2. He's patient and always listens.
  3. Felix has already acted crazy on several occasions so maybe nothing he does will shock Chris anymore?



But he’s quickly overthrown. Sensible-Felix adopts his trademark sinister voice, and says; _but what if there is._

The butterflies return to their cage and Felix’s barely-there heart pounds. He could still call his landlord and change his mind. Maybe they should wait a bit longer. Maybe this is a terrible idea.

But then there's a _poke._ A finger softly digging into his side, and Chris’s raspy morning voice chops through his flailing thoughts.

"Morning, baby."

"Morning...you snored again last night."

Chris gravitates towards Felix's side of the bed like he's the center of his universe, trails a hand over his ribs and up his chest, feeling his skin dip and pulse underneath his fingertips. Felix whines into his mouth as he kisses him. _Cold_ and _tickles_ and _ow_.

"Sorry…"

He's always a human icicle. Chris is the complete opposite, practically a human chimney. So he gathers Felix close, turns him so they can spoon, and slings a leg over him to cocoon him properly. 

"You're always cold. Did you sleep in a wonky position again, is your neck sore?"

Felix makes _mmmhm-_ noises and curls into the inviting warmth. But then there's another problem. Chris's boner, that has a tendency to pop up whenever it wants, because well. Felix's ass just happens to curve into Chris's crotch perfectly, like their bodies were made to be slotted together. 

But they haven't done _that_ for a while. To claim Chris isn't dying to would be a lie, that his breaths aren't quickening as they speak and all his blood flows south. But now? 

No. 

He can almost hear Felix swallow and feel his tummy nervously constrict under his fingers. Now isn't good. He's well versed enough in all things Felix to know that he rarely likes it in broad daylight.

“Are you okay," he mumbles into the forest of hair. Felix claims he is. _Sure, yeah, why wouldn’t I be._

Chris pulls back as far as he can to create a little pocket of air between them, and crawls over him instead to have a look at him. Even from an angle he can tell the tiny hint of a smile isn't even close to genuine.

"Your hair is getting so long," he comments instead, and hunches down to peck him on the cheek.

Felix makes sleepy noises of appreciation as he begins to card through it. It’s so long and unruly that Chris's fingers get stuck in all the knots. As the notoriously heavy sleeper he is, he didn't notice, but Felix must have tossed and turned restlessly last night. 

"What are you thinking about?"

"Baby Jesus and cinnamon latte," Felix drones into the pillow.

That probably isn’t the full truth. It kind of never is. Eventually Chris swipes them into the kitchen, to brew coffee and fix them breakfast and take the opportunity to hum Christmas songs while he's at it. Felix is both entertained and annoyed, really, but he's being spoiled with cinnamon latte, so he can't complain.

"Someone's excited for Christmas."

"Absolutely," Chris chirps. This is the only time of the year he can get away with it. "Are you sure you don't want to invite anyone later?"

But Felix doesn't look even mildly interested. He's sipping his morning fix of caffeine sideways, hunched over the table while peering out of the window. The afternoon light, filtered through a thick cloud coverage, colors his skin a pale pastel beige. His fingers drum a soft beat on the table and his chin raises as he catches sight of a passing plane. 

Chris's knees grow weak because he loves watching him, loves pastel-Felix with his fair hair and dark roots and faint freckles and loves that he fits so well here in his pastel kitchen. 

But this is a thing he often does. Just looking out of windows; at the sky, or the birds, or the rain. The longer Chris spends with him, the more he learns about these little behavioral quirks of his. This dreamy stare means he's retreated into Felix-land and he's thinking about something. What about is just not entirely obvious.

Also, he didn't expect any other answer than a head-shake to the question. Because he knows Felix keeps everyone who even qualifies as friend at arm's length. He's seen him wave at acquaintances in shops and even stop to for small chats now and then, but that's it. He's heard him politely decline invitations to hang out, more than once. Maybe that’s just the way he is, a bit of an odd cat and perpetual loner. But it's nice to ask, anyway.

Felix jolts, almost as if he'd forgotten where he is, when Chris sits next to him after deciding they're too far apart. 

"Where did you go again?"

"Nowhere…I’m here."

Chris noses down his jawline, pressing fluttering kisses to every inch of exposed skin he can reach until the smile is genuine. Felix melts into his embrace, shuddering. This is cozy and maybe even enough to silence Sensible-Felix for now.

"I can cancel, you know," Chris suggests carefully, pulling back a few inches. "You seem a little down today."

A _little_ down. Understatement. It needs to be post-holidays already so he can drag Felix to the counselor. But that's not all. Lately he's been somewhat of a mulled wine and soju connoisseur. Which is fine, but also a tiny amount of worrying when it's coupled with brooding and long periods of daydreaming.

After some computing, he pretends to have a sudden change of heart. "Now that I think about it...maybe it would be much nicer to just have an evening alone with you."

Felix snorts and sighs and dives into his neck to get lost in the soft black strands. What a gross fabrication. The cupboards are overflowing with alcohol and he's been looking forward to show off his gingerbread apartment complex to all his friends.

"No. No cancellations. I _love_ get-togethers, and Christmas."

"Sure you do," Chris muses. 

Sure he does.

* * *

Later, he kind of regrets it. But just a wee bit, because he can't be this scared forever, of _people._ It’s not like they’re an alien species or anything. But he worries. About what they might secretly think of his shyness and awkwardness, worries that he’ll commit some monumental faux pas and that he won’t be able to come up with something interesting to talk about. Et cetera.

Chris is busy and Felix is already dressed and looking as sharp as he can with casually slicked back hair and casually white cotton tee and his best casually ripped jeans. To be helpful (and also because it's mostly his sandwich crumbs on the rug) he vacuums the living room. It's a good distraction. But as he passes the couch, he pictures hordes of people occupying it. Which there will be, soon. 

That's okay, he tells himself. He likes them, he's met them on multiple occasions, they're not strangers anymore. Like come on. 

But fifteen plus people is still a large gathering when you're used to only having one set of Chris around. Felix continues aggressively vacuuming, but he can't prevent the ants from crawling under his skin, can't prevent the anxiety from circling his throat like barbed wire because of course it does.

When he's done he peeks into the kitchen. There's a wine cooler containing ice and various intriguing looking bottles on the table, courtesy of Chris. It's so sparkly and inviting and practically calling his name. Felix gradually gravitates towards it, just like Chris gravitated towards him this morning.

It doesn't take long. Ten minutes and a vodka soda later, he's tipsy. The trio of Felixes whip out sunglasses and cocktails and bob around in the little alcohol-infused ocean on their inflatable mattresses.

And this is allowed, right?

He can hear Chris rummage around the bedroom, folding away clean laundry and digging around for stuff to wear. Felix downs a cherry alcopop while flipping through a newspaper loitering on the table. A few minutes pass, and the letters turn blurry. Not-Felix cheers him on and tells him it's all good, it's all good fun. 

But someone keeps intruding, reciting a dull monologue at the back of his head.

 _You're seriously turning into an alcoholic, Felix_ , and that mocking tone.

What did he say to that? Did he even defend himself? Did he remember to point out that he just likes that version of himself a little better because it's just easier when all the harsh edges turn soft and he doesn't have to overthink everything and what's the harm?

He swats the unwelcome memory fly away. The knot unties and dissolves into sparks shooting all the way into his fingertips and toes and he ends up gravitating towards Chris next, to disturb him while he's getting dressed.

Turns out he isn't, yet. He's in his boxers. There's a dark purple shirt waiting on the bed, ready to be worn. Felix stifles a hiccup and promptly slinks up to him.

"Oh, hello there," Chris smirks, and experiences déjà vu, thanks to Felix's red suspenders. He wore them that first night they met.

The fact that Felix looks insansely nice in suspenders is all he has time to register before he's pushed down and finds himself with a lapful of him. It's not like he minds, quite the contrary. His kisses are sloppy and he tastes like artificial flavoring and his eyes — unfocused and lined with smudged black — sparkle like sequins. 

But it's kind of sudden.

Maybe even a lot sudden. When he finally can breathe, he grabs Felix by his suspenders and yanks him back.

"What's this all about?"

But Felix doesn't like being held back. Not one bit.

"Nothing, I just want to kiss you. Don't be mean."

"You're drunk as a skunk,” Chris notes. It's only been thirty minutes since he last saw him and he wasn't drunk then. The mini bottle of rosé he placed on the nightstand as he wobbled in catches his eye.

"Did you go haywire on the makeshift bar?"

"Maybe a little.” Felix tries to get closer so he can sprinkle kisses all over him again, but he’s pulled back, again. He's cute, all flushed cheeks and whining disapproval where he bounces in Chris’s lap.

“You're fucking _mean._ I didn't wear these so you could take advantage of them."

“Yeah, just slow down a moment," Chris soothes him, cradling a rosy cheek. "You’ve been quiet all day and now you’re suddenly ravaging me, and I just want to make sure you’re okay."

“Well now I am," comes Felix's husky, sweet-tasting reassurances, spoken into his mouth. He rolls his hips and Chris can’t think clearly, but he still wrestles with himself. This seems chaotic, this isn't right. 

_Right?_

Or is it? 

This seems like a different Felix again. The one he can’t figure out, the one who only makes an appearance under chaotic circumstances for whatever reason — and chaos isn't good. 

But then he somehow clutches air. Felix has slid down like a worm and now he sits on the floor in front of him, and he's dragged Chris's boxers down with him. Oh. Oh, no, _no, abort_ — 

“No, _Felix_ , you don't have to do that, we don’t even have time and you're _drunk_ —“

"We have time, it's _okay_ —”

Is it? Chris traps a breath and tries to reach a conclusion, while Felix's fingers clench into his thighs to hold him steady. He locks eyes with him and trails his tongue over his shaft, letting his teeth graze over the vein. A heated chill travels from Chris's chest to his groin and before he knows it he grows stiff in Felix's mouth.

"Uh, god, okay."

Chris leans back on his elbows, dazed, and just soaks him up. And he's drunk too now, off the little cheeky tilt of Felix’s chin and the wrecked quality of his voice as he asks if it's good.

“It’s...good, so good. Fuck that feels good.”

Felix’s overgrown hair falls into his eyes and sticks to spit-slick lips while he bobs up and down, so Chris helps him by swiping it back and gathering it into a ponytail. His eyes are dark slits and Chris can’t even see the warm brown he knows is there. The sight renders him a bit speechless, it's all a bit dangerous. A lot dangerous — because this can’t be Felix. Not the same guy from this morning who flinched at his mere touch, surely not.

“You're so pretty” he can't help but conclude. Because he is. It's alien to see him like this, so unbothered and on display. One of his suspenders has slid off his shoulders and his nose scrunches in concentration and Crisis pitch climbs higher each time he pulls back.

“Careful,” he warns when he’s close, but Felix’s cheeks hollow out as he takes him deeper. He isn’t careful, not at all. All Chris feels is his throat flexing and closing around him before he comes with a reverent groan. Fuck. 

_Again._

And again he didn't plan to, but again Felix didn't really give him much of a choice.

There isn't even any mess to clean up, but Chris obviously feels bad. Felix notices it while he catches his breath, peers up at him, and states the same as always. That he isn't made of glass.

"Alright…"

Chris wonders if that's really true, but doesn't press.

Felix rests his head in his lap a moment, just letting Chris stroke damp strands of hair out of his forehead and admire him. He cups his chin, appreciating the soft slopes of his face and the little way Felix curves into his touch. Like he trusts him.

But while his momentary high evaporates, the mystery of Felix remains. He does wonder, where this raunchy version of him emerged from again. But he doesn't have time to form a question. Felix crawls up, grabs the forgotten bottle of rosé and practically inhales it in one swig. 

“Hey, take it _easy_ with that —“

He receives nothing but an eye roll in return. “Sorry, you're hot and all, but your cum doesn't taste _that_ good. Need to wash it down."

“Well duh, I know," Chris says sincerely. He's pretty much honored that Felix even wants his cum anywhere near his mouth. "But come on," he continues, making for him with a cheeky grin. "I wanna take care of you too."

He pries the now empty bottle from him, intending on ushering him towards the bed — but Felix slithers out of his grasp instantly.

“It’s okay, no need." He methodically rearranges his suspenders before helping Chris, by picking up his shirt and throwing it in his face.

“What do you mean no need? Come on, lay down and I’ll — _hey_ , Felix!"

But Felix is already halfway out the door, waving his hand in dismissal as he goes. “Your friends will be here soon, no time." 

Huh. 

Chris remains on the spot, shimmying into his clothes and trying to get all his brain cells in line again. He hears Felix clink with glasses in the kitchen, and realizes. That while that was all kinds of right, it was also all kinds of wrong.

* * *

A few hours later, Chris's living room is stretched to max capacity. People laugh and talk over each other and constantly get their socks caught on the sticky patches on the floor as they move to and from the kitchen — and Felix is drunk. Which is saying a lot, since he was already drunk. But now, he’s like a can of bottled energy, out of nowhere. 

It didn’t occur to Chris before, but now, some vague memory of _bad tolerance_ resurfaces. 

Felix has also forgotten he never sings. Chris's friend Hyunjin — aka, Starbucks-guy, the guy he initially hated because of his good looks and perfect set of teeth — is the one to eventually lure him into the trap. But first, they have a heart to heart on the couch. 

"You know, I didn't really like you at first," Felix confesses after a few invigorating sips of mulled wine. "I saw you and Chris at Starbucks and I drew some weird conclusions."

"Oh, wow.” A few stray drops run down Hyunjin’s chin as he misses his mouth with his own bottle. “But that’s okay. I really liked you at first though. You're a funny guy.”

"I know you did, that's why I feel bad," Felix admits sheepishly. He’d really like to forget about that brief period of irrational jealousy by now. “You're so nice."

"No.” Hyunjin places a hand on Felix’s shoulder, glossy doe eyes trained on him. “You're the one who's so nice."

"No, Hyunjin, _you're_ so nice."

"No, man, I mean it, you really are _so_ nice.”

They bicker back and forth like that for at least a minute, spilling their drinks all over Chris's couch cushions. Eventually he has to step in to diffuse the heated argument. 

"Can we just agree that you're both so nice?"

They can. The pair of them have a mulled wine chugging contest before Chris can prevent it, and then Hyunjin comes up with the brilliant idea to whip out the karaoke. Felix flips through the songs, but decides quickly. _Last Christmas_ by Mariah Carey, since he suddenly loves Christmas and all.

He's obviously a little challenged, due to the inebriation. But who cares about the occasional voice crack and key problem. Chris thinks it's the most beautiful rendition he’s ever heard.

Felix instantly wants to hear his verdict as the last note dies out, and Chris is more than ready to shower him with compliments. 

"So? _So?_ Did you like my singing?"

"Uh, yeah. Loved it, as predicted. You should sing more often. And we should make music together."

Felix disagrees, but he’s shut up by a kiss and encouraged to sing more, which he does. The evening disappears in a hazy blur, well. For everyone except Chris. At some point it becomes clear he won't be able to slow Felix down, so he just accepts his role as babysitter and bottle collector instead.

It's a little unsettling. Not that Felix is drinking, but that he jumps from one emotional spectrum to another, so fast and without warning.

But he pushes it away, and groans in disappointment when he suddenly sees his gingerbread apartment complex on the coffee table, in the process of being torn apart by eager hands.

"Well, help yourselves, why don't you...I spent ages on that…"

Apparently no one cares about this fact. By midnight everyone’s speech is pretty much slurred and Chris has to constantly lower the volume on the speakers because someone (Hyunjin) keeps turning it up. And just like he predicted, Felix’s eyelids start drooping fast.

Soon he’s snoring away in the far corner of the couch, still holding the karaoke mic in one hand and a half-drunken bottle of mulled wine in the other. After collecting them Chris drapes a blanket over him and retreats to the kitchen, to escape the drunken chatter. 

But while he's busy throwing empty cans into a bag, there's a discreet cough from the doorway. He’s surprised when he sees who it is. Sungho from uni. 

"Oh, hey? I thought you weren't coming, you said you were going skiing with your family?”

"Change of plans. Just stopped by on my way home from another party, Hyunjin let me in...hope you don't mind."

He leans against the door frame with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a spotless (most likely designer) beige peacoat. Chris did invite the guy, but it's not like he expected him to come. They’ve seen each other less since he took his gap year, not to mention his abode has always been way too humble for the guy’s expensive tastes.

"No...no, of course not," he assures, still. Best to be polite.

There’s some lukewarm small talk while he continues cleaning; scattered questions about how Chris’s holiday has been and whatnot. Until Sungho ends up surprising him again.

"So. You and Felix, huh?"

Chris throws the last can in the trash, and meets the inquisitive stare. "Me and Felix?"

"You're a thing."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess you saw him out in the living room, he's —”

"Shitfaced. As usual."

Chris's brows jump into his hairline. Sungho, on the other hand, doesn't bat a lash. He’s moved to stand by the sink, vacantly spinning a bottle of champagne in his hands.

"What?"

"There's no need to introduce us. He was always a keen drinker back when we were together."

Chris doesn’t like that condescending tone at all, and feels a tinge of unease when it clicks.

"Wait, you... _you're_ his ex?"

The affirmation arrives in the form of a much too nonchalant nod. He quickly scans the guy, racking his brain for all the information he can locate. Twenty-four, posh, drives fancy cars, wants to be a K-drama actor, always humblebrags, wears non prescription glasses, should lay off the hair gel a bit. 

But...mean? Abusive? 

Well, he's not sure. But when he steps up to him, he sounds, and probably looks, way more threatening than he intended.

"I swear, I'll end you if you did something to Felix to traumatize him."

 _"Excuse me?”_ The cocky tone falters for a second, replaced by — what sounds like — authentic shock. "Where are these insane allegations coming from?”

"He said you left him, and if that's the reason he's —”

"Dysfunctional?"

Chris's heart drops. Sungho straightens out his collar with a huff and brushes imaginary dirt off his sleeves. "Nah. He was like that when we started dating."

"If you're lying —”

"Chris, what the hell. I never bent a hair on that kid's head. Ask him, he'll tell you."

He has to begrudgingly admit that the guy sounds sincere. Even though he also comes off rude enough to warrant that fist in his face.

"Well something must have —”

He halts himself when he realizes he's getting dangerously piercing, and lowers his voice to an insidious whisper instead. "Something must have happened because Felix is still screwed up from it."

It’s very clear Sungho feels intimidated, what with being stuck between Chris and the sink at the moment. He tuts and starts to stealthily creep towards the exit, while he shrinks considerably under the heavy gaze following him.

“I didn't do anything to him, I just waited patiently for him to get his shit together, which never happened. Is he still maintaining that whole shy and fragile act?"

Anger coils like a snake in Chris’s stomach. Shy and fragile _act_. If Felix's whole personality is an act then he's a never before witnessed, exceptionally rare acting talent.

"It's not an act. If you know him at all then you're aware he is a little shy and fragile and there's nothing wrong with that."

Sungho’s face remains stony while he lets that information sink in. "Sure, sure. But the thing is, the moment he has a sip of alcohol he turns into this unhinged flirt. I mean haven't you noticed? It used to be pretty cringy to witness." Now that there’s some space between them, he has the nerve to sound smug again. "Oh, and I think he cheated on me too. Pretty sure he just dated me for the money."

"That's absolute bullshit."

Sungho just shrugs _, if you say so_ , in that absolutely insufferable way. God, what a pest. Chris stalks up to him, not the slightest bit amused anymore.

"We're not done, but I think you should go before Felix sees you here and I lose my cool."

"I'll go, chill out. I literally just wanted to give you a heads up. Take care, huh, see you around."

He swings around, about to leave. But in the distance, Chris can hear a familiar, low timbre approaching. He curses inwardly, because _Felix is supposed to be asleep on the damn couch_ — but nope.

"Hey Chris where's —”

"Hello Lee Felix," Sungho greets him dryly. Felix looks lost for just a fraction of a second, blinking rapidly, before all the color drains from his face. He stumbles backwards, creating as much distance between them as he can.

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

“Chris and I are actually friends, but I’m just on my way out, so don't worry."

 _"But what_ _—”_

Felix's voice, used and rusty after multiple hours of drinking, doesn't carry. The syllables clump together, and Chris hurries to take him in his arms.

"Felix, calm down —”

_"What did you say to him?!"_

He's basically screaming, even though only half of it is intelligible. Sungho watches the display with cool indifference, hands shoved into his pockets again.

"I didn't say anything, but apparently you've been yapping about me and spreading bullshit. Did you tell him that you cheated?"

 _"I didn't cheat_ —”

"Sure. And maybe you should tell him what you did after we broke up."

"Get out," Chris growls, but Sungho doesn't have to be told twice. He addresses him one last time, stating; _ask him,_ and then he’s gone, finally.

Two remain. Chris, who's livid and wonders what the hell just happened, and Felix, who sniffles and repeatedly asks what he was doing here — but then he breaks off. Chris is hastily shoved aside, Felix barely has time to bend over the sink before his stomach lurches, and then the night comes to a very unfortunate end.

Well, fuck.

Chris crowds him, quickly moving his hair out of the way and dragging his suspenders off to let him breathe while he keeps retching.

"It's okay, it's okay baby. Just uh, get it all out."

It's all pretty brutal, but better out than in, at least. Hyunjin comes scuttling while Felix is on his third round of dry heaving. He instantly sobers up when he sees him, regret pooling into his eyes.

"Oh, no, oh shit, oh no, is he okay? Did I kill him? I shouldn't have let him have the whole bottle of mulled wine back, _oh no_ —”

He's reassured it’s okay, but after Chris glances at the clock and Felix starts gagging again, he's sent out in the living room to announce the end of the evening. The guests obediently trudge towards the exit, their goodbyes echoing in unison from the hallway. Chris tries his best to reciprocate, while simultaneously maneuvering Felix into the bathroom.

It works, but while being stripped he cries his eyes out until his face is all swollen and his eyes are raisins. Chris isn't sure if it's due to the fact he's smashed or because of his scummy ex, or both. Probably both. But this is no time to quiz him on the matter so he just quickly rinses him off, wraps him in a towel and carries him to their final destination.

But in the bedroom, nothing goes smoothly. For a guy who's drunk off his ass and close to nodding off, Felix is surprisingly reluctant to cooperate. 

"Chris, what did Sung tell you? Because it's not true, okay?"

"He didn't tell me anything, don't worry about it — for fucks sake — can you — _ow!”_

Felix socks him in the jaw by accident while he’s trying to dress him in a fresh t-shirt, and that’s it. Chris catches both his wrists in a steel-wired grip.

" _Stop,_ what's going on with you today? I'm trying to put this thing on you, so can you stop fighting me?!"

The second after he regrets basically shouting. Felix's face crumples and he lets out a shaky sob instead, but at least he stops trying to murder him.

 _"I'm sorry,_ I’m sorry — just, lift your arms, come on," Chris mutters, and Felix ends up dressed at last. But he won't give up, won't lay down, not even after the lights are dimmed and the pillows fluffed. He's still vertical and slurring hysterically when he should be soundly sleeping. 

"Seriously Felix, what did this guy do to you? This isn't _normal_ —”

"He didn't...do anything, but you can’t see him again, okay?!”

“If he didn’t then why are you so upset?”

“Because! Promise!”

"I won’t, jesus, I won’t, but we'll talk about it tomorrow, please, you need to _sleep.”_

Chris begs him over and over, but that's the wrong call. Felix doesn't want to talk about it tomorrow. He doesn't want to sweep a bottle of water and be cuddled to sleep, neither does he want to postpone this discussion. All he wants to do is stutter and hyperventilate and have a panic attack.

 _"I'm not like he says_ —”

"Shh, _stop_ — stop, I know, that guy is just a pompous ass, forget about him."

Chris dabs his cheeks with soft tissues and shushes him, but no. 

_"Tell me what he said, please_ ," Felix pleads between the sobs, and it's heartbreaking. This isn't the conversation to have right now. It’ll do fuck all to help, and _god damn it,_ why couldn't he arrive a few seconds later? Then at least his only concern tomorrow would be a sore head after a good time and not... _this,_ whatever it is.

But he did. Chris relents, but first, he links his and Felix’s fingers together first and squeezes.

"Just a bunch of utter crap, he said a bunch of crap. That he thinks you cheated and that you were just in it for his money and that you're somehow pretending something — _Felix, hey?"_

He only gets halfway. Felix stares down into his lap, blinded by his own tears. They _drip-drip-drip_ down, creating a whole ocean of misery on his bare thighs.

 _Why is this happening_.

Chris’s voice dithers and dissolves into fragments of pounding music and he remembers then. Not because he wants to, but because Sensible-Felix is ready on standby to show him. Felix cries and protects his heart because it's so brittle, and screams himself hoarse, begs him; _don't do it, don't do this to me and why are you doing this to me?!_

But Sensible-Felix curls spindly fingers around him like vines — cold, cold, _cold_ — and leads him through the underwater maze, through the shipwrecks and spiderwebs and darkened rooms with blinking lights and clouds of smoke and writhing masses of drunk people, leads him through neverending corridors and into taxis and up stairs and all the way into dawn. 

He remembers it all, everything. The forbidden movies, the pressure, the emptiness. All those cunning smiles that sag when morning light breaks in through the window to show him the ugly reality, and all he's left with is lungs full of saltwater and the throbbing in his bones and the ache that never truly fades.

 _You feed yourself bodies and bodies and bodies because then, maybe_ —

_(All it does is make you numb (carve you out just a little bit more because how can you feel anything, you're defective)) and when will it end._

"I've ruined it now, haven't I, _fuck_ —”

Felix cries openly and the unusually high and irate pitch sends Chris into panic for real. It’s so loud it hurts.

"Listen, _listen_ , you haven't ruined anything, why do you keep saying that?"

“ _Because_ — I _will_ —”

Déjà vu strikes for the second time tonight. Chris remembers Felix sitting on the bed and looking so broken when he asked the same thing and then the next morning, he was gone. 

He can't be gone tomorrow. 

But the tears keep streaming like there's an endless supply of them and he refuses to move or reveal anything. Chris finally pushes him onto his back without much consideration, and rolls him up in the covers like a burrito. But even then, as he’s hugged and stilled, he keeps making no sense.

"It's not me, it's not me, it wasn't me, it's not _me_ —”

Something shatters in Chris’s chest as he listens to him mumble deliriously. He's five seconds from crying too, but he can't, because he's supposed to keep everything from escalating again even though it already has.

"Okay, okay, I hear you," he promises, his voice swallowed by a terrible, wet sob, but he manages to keep it in check. "It’s not you, it’s okay. It's not you. But I love you, Felix, and we'll be okay." He pulls him up, rocking the blanket bundle slowly. "Listen, you just drank a little too much and your dumb ex showed up. It happens to everyone now and then, but it's okay."

He considers the hospital again, considers, emergency _something,_ because this isn't okay — but Felix settles. The three AM tranquility envelops them and Chris finger-combs his hair until his tear canals dry out and he’s quiet.

Chris shakes him carefully. "Felix? Do you need anything?"

"I don't know. I feel so bad."

Felix launches out of the burrito and loops arms around Chris's waist instead. _Bad._ That's not good at all.

"Physically or mentally?"

"I don't know, I just feel...just universally bad."

"Universally bad,” Chris parrots. Felix presses his face into his lap. “Well, that's...pretty damn bad."

They stay like that. Chris asks if he’s really able to breathe ( _mmh_ , he says) and lets himself be calmed by the teeny fizzling noises coming from Felix’s nose while he absently pets his hair. He’ll probably feel like absolute dogshit tomorrow, but that's a minor issue. There’s more pressing ones, like maybe he should book Felix an appointment to a mental health worker earlier than intended. To...hell, he doesn’t even know. Get him started on antidepressants, or something. Maybe he should.

A weepy, muffled request makes his ears perk.

"What's that?"

It takes a few repetitions, but he deciphers the message after a moment. 

"You want bubble tea? I'll get you bubble tea."

Heck, Chris will get him anything he wants if it just prevents another crying outburst. It only takes him fifteen seconds to practically fly to the kitchen and back, shove a peach bubble tea in Felix's hand, and prop him up against the headboard. It's such a relief to watch him contently sip it.

"Bubble tea, what a wise decision. Neutralize your pH, good idea."

"Doesn't matter, I'll still be so hungover tomorrow,” Felix sulks, as if that realization only struck him just now.

"Don't worry about that, baby, you'll be okay, I've got painkillers ready for when you wake. You don't have to worry about anything."

Felix nods, and eventually falls asleep mid-sip. Fucking finally. Chris pulls the straw out of his mouth and readjusts his t-shirt and tucks him in and that's the end of it. 

But it’s not the end of the swelling lump in his throat, it’s just the beginning. The weight of a thousand suns press on his ribcage and keep his lungs from inflating properly because he doesn’t understand what’s happening. But he’ll ask him. Tomorrow.

It’s Christmas eve. Chris sees puffy snowflakes trickle down through the gap in the curtains and everything is so peaceful, but he just lays awake, tracing the answers to all over Felix’s tummy with his fingers. 


End file.
